


Between the Shadows

by Mystrana, the_genderman



Category: Captain America (Movies), Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (off-screen) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Assassins & Hitmen, Betrayal, Captain America Big Bang 2019 | cabigbang, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Cultural Differences, Developing Friendships, Drow Culture, Drow are not inherently evil, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, Swords & Sorcery, Trust, Villain Character Death, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, slowish burn, somewhat complicated steve rogers/bucky barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-13 19:35:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 31,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21003047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mystrana/pseuds/Mystrana, https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_genderman/pseuds/the_genderman
Summary: Life in Menzoberranzan is hard. That’s how it always has been, how it always will be. Natasha long ago accepted that the life of a drow is to kill or be killed. When she survives an attempt on her life that forces her up to the World Above, she finds a new set of challenges—and a new set of allies, maybe even friends.Sam is forced to make a snap decision about the drow he’s been called in to deal with. Can a half-elf and a drow be allies? Friends? What will happen when he vouches for her?Steve lost his partner to a drow raid years before. He also trusts Sam almost more than he trusts himself, even when he shows up in town with a drow in tow.Can a drow, a half-elf, and a human work together to stop a drow plot and save the unknown human thrall caught up in the middle of it all?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> As the Dungeon Master (DM) of my fic, I am plastering my own headcanons all over this, both the Dungeons and Dragons and Marvel parts. Sources I have picked and chosen from: MCU, Marvel Comics, Dungeons & Dragons Fifth Edition Players Handbook and Monster Manual, Legend of Drizzt series of novels, forgottenrealms.fandom.com, my own canon-flavored-Lacroix, and some good old fashioned handwaving.
> 
> And any Dungeon Master needs great visuals to go along with their story, which will be provided by Mystrana who did a banner and multiple pieces of art for my fic. It's been a wonderful partnership in this Bang.

92 Years Before Present

“Where are we going?” Yelena asked her mother as they slipped through the streets of the Braeryn, the slums of Menzoberranzan.

“Hush, child. If you wish to live, you will do as I say,” her mother hissed as they hurried along.

They wound through narrow, dirty streets, past shuttered windows and hooded figures who paid them little attention as they went, speaking to no one, pretending like they belonged. No one went to the Braeryn who did not live or have business there. And if one had business in the Braeryn? All the more reason not to speak to them. Yelena watched her mother as she glanced furtively up at each of the buildings they passed, barely worthy of being called houses, in her mind. They were nobles, they did not belong here.

Finding the house she was looking for, Yelena’s mother stopped, drew her cloak closer around her face, and slipped around to the back of the wide, slightly damp, lichen-encrusted stalagmite. She tapped on the door, a hollow flat sound. A small slot in the door slid open, and a pair of suspicious pink eyes peered out at Yelena and her mother. For a moment, Yelena felt almost afraid. 

“What do you want?” a voice from within asked.

“I have brought my daughter to become a Widow.”

“Why would you or your daughter wish this?”

“I want her to live!”

“We all want to live. And you look well-born, why would you offer your daughter to us? To become a Widow is to renounce your House and your birthrights.”

“We have no House, no birthrights anymore,” Yelena heard her mother say, desperation in her voice. “Our House is lost, I wish only for my daughter to live.”

“If she accepts us, if Zinerena accepts _her_, if she is worthy, then she will live and she will prosper, but your line will end with her. She will live and die in service of her goddess, there will be no children for her, no House, no line, no riches. She will live, but it will be a life unlike what she has known.”

“Yes, yes, anything! Yelena, please, tell them you accept.”

Yelena looked at her mother, unsure. She did not wish to die, but to accept this lowly life? To forfeit any chance of having children, having a bloodline or a House of her own? Was this life worth losing everything she had been taught? All of the comforts she had lived? Everything she had ever known?

\-----------------

92 Years Before Present

“And what is your name?” The Headmistress asked the small, somewhat malnourished-looking, but spirited young drow female standing before her.

“My name is Natasha.”

“No House name? Were you not brought to us from House Kras’naya?”

Natasha spat at the floor. “Yes, a princess of House Kras’naya brought me here, but I am not one of them, and I never shall be. They have wronged me, have wronged all the low-born drow, have wronged our entire race with their greed, and I wish for them, and all like them, to pay for their crimes.”

“You have a fire in you, child,” the Headmistress smiled. “If you can learn to tend that fire, to keep it low and steady, to not let it blaze high and hot and burn out just as quickly as it was born, then you will prosper in the Widows’ Web.”

\---------------

7 Years Before Present

Steve found Sam well after the service had ended, perched up in the crown of a small shadowtop tree in Mielikki’s Glade. He was almost hidden from the ground, but Steve knew where to look for his friend in difficult times. The Lady of the Forest’s shrine was a place of peace and healing to all, but especially rangers after her own heart. Sam sat with his back to the trunk, feet braced on the thin yet sturdy branch he had chosen. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest and his eyes were closed. Steve craned his neck and squinted; he thought he might have caught a glimpse of Sam’s lips moving, speaking quiet words not meant for the ears of the living or the mortal.

When Sam lifted his head slightly, rolled his shoulders to get some of the stiffness out, Steve took the opportunity to speak. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Sam turned carefully, wrapping one arm around the trunk and dangling his legs off his branch. He looked down at Steve. “I couldn’t save him.”

“Not your fault, Sam. You know how vicious orcs can be,” Steve said, trying to reassure him.

“I know,” Sam replied. “There was nothing I could do, but it still feels like I should have done more.”

Steve nodded silently. As a captain in the Moon Garrison, he had seen good men and women die in orc and drow raids, and he carried little pieces of each loss with him. But he hadn’t experienced loss in such a profound and personal way as Sam. Riley had been Sam’s friend, his partner, his lover. He knew Sam needed time to grieve, but he also knew it hurt a little less when you had someone there for you to listen, to simply be there.

“If you need to talk, I’ll listen,” Steve said as quietly as he could, while still allowing his words to reach Sam, high above him. “If you just need a friend, I’ll be there for you. If you need me to leave you alone for a while, I can do that, too.”

“I need some time,” Sam said, shaking his head a little.

“Of course,” Steve nodded. “Come down whenever you’re ready. You know where to find me.”

\-----------------

2 Years Before Present

“No sign of him?” Steve asked anxiously, peering out into the distance, squinting towards the rising sun, just cresting the horizon. The first rays of dawn glinted off of the Nether Mountains, painting their rock and snow in golds, ambers, and fiery reds.

“Nothing, I’m sorry,” Sam replied, rising fluidly from his crouch. “His footprints stop here and don’t pick up again _anywhere_ within a hundred meters and I’m not getting anything from my spell, so unless he got carried off by a griffin—and I’m pretty sure we would have heard something, if that _had>_ happened—I can’t imagine what could have happened to him, where he could have gone.”

“Drow?” Steve asked, his fears coalesced into that one word. Their party had been following reports and rumors of drow activity over the past few days, hoping to locate the secret passageway that let the Underdark spill its vicious residents up into the surface lands, raiding and slaughtering in the dark of night, and make sure it could be magically sealed off. 

Sam shook his head slowly. He set his hand on Steve’s shoulder gently, comfortingly. “Unlikely. No signs of recent drow activity, we still haven’t found their passage, there’s no body, and unless the drow have branched out into kidnapping, I don’t know. I wish I could give you some sort of answer, some degree of hope or closure, but I’m baffled. Everyone else is accounted for, zone of truth is still in effect, and I’ve run out of ideas. I’m so sorry, Steve.”

Steve pursed his lips and glanced away. Sam lowered his eyes to give Steve a little privacy. Steve had been there for him when he had lost Riley, he would be here for Steve when he was ready.


	2. Chapter 1 – To Serve the Other Goddess

(92 years before present)

The Headmistress snapped her fingers, calling Natasha and Yelena to attention. Her two newest recruits, sold to the Widows’ Web, quickly turned to face her. Though female drow were accorded a certain degree of respect in the dark elves’ hierarchy, the poorest of the poor rarely saw any benefit. They quickly learned to obey their betters or face immediate punishment—when they were unable to slip away to avoid them entirely. The two youths had already learned the ways of Menzoberranzan. Everyone did, one way or another. She steeled herself, making her face cool and impassive. She was not here to teach them compassion. Her duty was to teach them to survive against all odds and to use their talents—if they _had_ any. If not, they would not survive—to serve the _other_ goddess.

“Pay heed to my words, children,” the Headmistress proclaimed. “This is the Widows’ Web. By entering through these doors, you have been given over, body and soul, to Zinzerena, the goddess of spies and assassins. You will learn as she did to control death, to make it yours to do with it what you need. Though slain by Lolth in jealousy of her gifts, our goddess refused to truly die, and returned to reclaim her realm. And like Zinzerena, you too shall be sneered at, looked down upon, outcast within our society, targeted for death if your true identity is discovered, but if you learn well, you shall not die. Though she forbids open worship, Lolth grudgingly admits that she was unable to kill our goddess and allows a chosen few to serve her. 

“Your place is between the shadows. To draw no attention to yourself, to become nothing, to become no one. From here forth, you have no House and no family but the Widows. You have no House name, no family name, no family ties. No alliances. No one but your sisters. No noble house will accept you on fear of incurring Lolth’s wrath. No common family will accept you, for fear of incurring a noble family’s ire. You will have no mates, no children, no line. Because you have no ties, no alliances, you will be able to move freely and kill without fear of reprisal. It is kill or be killed, and the Widows are _survivors_. The nobles will come to us, and if the price is right and we deem the target worthy of death, we will assign a Widow to the task. Thus we provide for ourselves, and they see a rival dispatched without having to implicate their House in the deed. Chaos is fed, and with it, we may feed ourselves.

“In our Widows’ Web, you will not learn the divine magic taught as in the school of Arach-Tinilith or the arcane magic of Sorcere, for we cannot truly rely on anyone but ourselves. Neither will you learn the fighting techniques of the school of Melee-Magthere, for those are taught to male soldiers and, though well suited to their duties fighting the monsters of the Underdark and other soldiers, they are too clumsy for our needs. You will learn a subtle blending of our race’s inherent magic and the use of cunning blades and devious poisons. If you survive the training, you will become fully fledged Black Widows. With all of your sacrifices, you will become the _true_ power of Menzoberranzan. The spiders feared by even Lolth.”

With her proclamation ended, the Headmistress turned and swept out of the room without another word. An older Widow came to collect the children and show them around their new home.

Natasha glanced around, moving only her eyes, mapping out the carved out interior of the stalagmite that housed the Widows’ Web as the older Widow showed them to the barracks. She ran through the Headmistress’s words in her head, parsing them for whatever hidden meanings they may have. Though young, Natasha had already learned a healthy degree of distrust. The Black Widows would suit her well.


	3. Chapter 2 – Life, As It May Be

The years passed, the young Widows grew and trained and found a home among their peers. It was not an easy life, days filled with training, honing and perfecting their craft, but neither was it so difficult as the lives they would have lead outside of their Web. They had bed and board and regular meals, all for the occasional price of dealing death to their fellow drow. It was a plain, almost monastic, life, no riches awaited them, but it was not such a bad deal, Natasha told herself. She had seen what greed and riches may do to a drow, and she had no lost love for that life.

The Widows even had something almost approaching leisure, a privilege usually only accorded to the noble families. The Black Widows danced. True, the dance could be said to aid in their profession, making them more nimble, agile, darting lightly through the shadows to creep unseen and unheard upon their prey, but it was also a brief freedom from the suspicions of daily life. To take a moment to think of nothing but the grace that the elven body was capable of, unarmed and unworried, that was as close to freedom as one could get in the perilous Underdark, full of insidious dangers. To dance was to uplift what a drow _could_ be.

To dance was also to work _together_ in a task. The Widows trained to dance both alone and in perfect coordination with one another; training the innate awareness of one’s surroundings and one’s allies, always thinking a half dozen steps ahead. And Natasha and Yelena, the two youngest Widows, closest in age, grew slowly closer in spirit, forming a natural alliance as they trained and grew in the Widows’ care. Natasha found almost a friend in the other female. The Widows encouraged a sort of friendship among their members, strengthening bonds and skills, but Natasha had learned hard lessons from a very young age that friendship was for the weak. However, she conceded, perhaps an alliance could be useful. 

And though she would never admit it to herself, Natasha found it comforting to have someone to talk to, to share her thoughts with. Someone with the same experiences, who could know how she felt. And she found herself oddly grateful that Yelena seemed to share in this desire for… friendship.

\-----------------------------

(34 years before present)

“Tell me,” Yelena asked one day, finding Natasha alone in meditation, “why do you prefer the hand crossbow to the dagger? I know you are not a coward, you train hard every day. I have seen you dance, I have seen you ply our craft with every weapon in our armory, and with the way you move, I would think the dagger would suit you far better. Why would you adopt a weapon that requires distance and aim when you could have the close precision of a poisoned blade? It seems to me unsporting and disingenuous to our patron goddess to prefer to attack from afar.”

Natasha shook her head. “Zinzerena is not such a zealot to insist that her works be performed solely by a dagger to back. The strength of an assassin is to kill without detection and by whatever means necessary. Besides, close combat is not my preference. Call it what you will, but I learned quite young that to allow your enemies near enough for the use of a blade is folly in the guise of bravery. Strike from a distance. If not to kill outright, then to disable. Move in, strike quickly, do what you need, and be gone.”

“You were no older than I when the Widows’ Web took you in,” Yelena said slowly. “I was still a mere child of 22 when I first met you.”

“Do I look so young still?” Natasha said, laughing a little. “No, I am older than I appear. I have a full two decades of experience on you. And that experience has taught me that to decide to dispatch an enemy ‘unsportingly’ from a distance is to decide to live another day.”

Yelena took a half step back, surprise registering on her face. “You have never told me this before. You lived outside of the Web for so long? What is it like out there? I barely remember my family, though I believe they were nobles of some rank. I remember my mother bringing me here, proud but afraid for my survival. She was not concerned with her own life, only that I would live through whatever cataclysm drove her to the Braeryn.”

Natasha sighed. “The dead do not concern us. We live, and the Widows are our family.”

“All the family I ever knew is dead,” Yelena said, sitting down next to Natasha. “I barely had any time with them. My mother gave me to the Widows so that I would survive. What was it like to have a family?”

“The _Widows_ are my family, are your family. Before the Widows, I wouldn’t know,” Natasha said quietly, her voice ice. “My life before was of no importance. We had no name, no House, rogues of the Braeryn, living hand to mouth. My family sold me to serve a House of middling importance for barely enough coin to sustain themselves for a month. It was in that House that I learned that to keep my distance and to hide in the shadows was to spare myself from pain and injury. 

“Eventually, I managed to convince one of the younger daughters of the house that she could get a better price if she in turn sold me to the Widows, and with that money, scheme to advance her place in our city’s hierarchy; perhaps one day she would have need of an assassin. All nobles are paranoid and greedy, wishing only to rise in power, to rise to join the Ruling Council, and terrified that someone else will cut them down to do the same. Her greed was easy to manipulate, and thus, here I am.” Natasha swept her arm out, nearly hitting Yelena. It was no less than a calculated move. “The Widows are my family; I have never had any other, nor will I ever.”

Yelena’s face went solemn as she considered Natasha’s words. “What a small family we are,” she finally spoke after a long silence. “Six Widows in our Web, no more than a few dozen scattered across the length and breadth of Menzoberranzan, not even knowing where the other Webs are woven.”

“Small, but they are our family,” Natasha said, her voice much softer, warmer now. “Do not worry yourself with things that once were and will never be again. Our lives only move forward.”

“Of course,” Yelena said, subdued.

“If you need a distraction, I can teach you a trick or two with the hand crossbow,” Natasha offered. 

“I would like that, thank you,” Yelena said, offering a rare smile.


	4. Chapter 3 – The Goblin’s Tales

(Present)

“Babolax have tales! Big tales! Tales from drow-city! _Important_ tales! Yous want to hear this tales!” the squirming goblin kept saying, repeating his words as the big farmer hauled him unceremoniously off to the Moon Garrison.

“I know, I know!” the farmer said, holding the goblin more firmly under her arm. “That’s why I didn’t let my dog eat you. I’m taking you off to tell your tales to people who can _do_ something about them.”

“No! Dog no eating Babolax! Babolax have important tales! Yous no eating Babolax!” Babolax yelped, squirming more furiously, but still held tight.

The farmer sighed. _Goblins_. Armies of them were dangerous, but individually? More of a pest and an annoyance than anything else. And if this one hadn’t been sporting a drow brand on his shoulder… Escaped drow slaves were rare, and even a goblin could be a source of information on that secretive subterranean elf race. The gods knew Silverymoon and any other cities, towns, or villages even remotely close to Menzoberranzan, their wicked capital, needed every bit of information to keep themselves safe. The drow came without warning, without pity, slaughtering entire villages before descending back beneath the earth before the sun rose and before the Silver Knights or the Moon Garrison or anyone, even a roving ranger, could be alerted.

She hitched the goblin up a little higher, a little tighter, and gripped her dog’s collar more firmly. She was almost at the city wall; she’d be in the gates and at the Garrison in no time at all. Let someone with the proper training deal with this godsforsaken goblin.

\---------------

Steve tried very hard to control his expression. It wouldn’t do to try to intimidate the goblin—he’d only curl up into a cowering, whimpering ball and spend the next ten minutes to half an hour repeating _‘Babolax have important tales! No eating Babolax!’_ until he had calmed down enough to answer questions again. Babolax—more like _Babble-lax_, Steve thought with a hint of a laugh. He didn’t think he’d ever had to deal with anyone who talked as much as this goblin did and, in doing so, said fewer things.

“Yes, thank you,” Steve said with practiced calm, folding his hands on the table between Babolax and himself. “You had been speaking of a ‘secret weapon’ that the drow are making. What do you know about this weapon?”

“Oh yes, secret weapon. Very very very secret. Big secret. Big dangerous,” Babolax said, nodding his head. “Mistress would talk about it sometimes if shes forget Babolax is around. Babolax not supposed to hear, but Babolax heared. Is big secret, big cold magic, take long long time to make perfecting. Drow making secret weapon to use against humans, something humans not see coming. Not look drow. Can be in _sunlight_. Can work in daytime, when drows cannot work.”

“You speak about this weapon as if it’s alive,” Steve said. “Is it a construct? A rogue modron?”

“Not knowing what those are,” Babolax said, shaking his head vigorously. His manacles clanked with the motion of his head and body. “Mistress say human weapon. Living weapon. Cold weapon, sometimes Babolax sees coldburns on drow that speaks to Mistress about big weapon. That what Babolax knows. Big cold secret human weapon. Very big dangerous.”

“And that’s all you can tell me? Only that it’s a big cold secret human weapon?” Steve asked. He felt like he had repeated the same question in every permutation of words possible over the past hour. Maybe it was time to put this goblin back into his cell and let one of his superiors figure out what to do with him.

“Very big dangerous secret human weapon,” Babolax said again. “Babolax tell yous everything hes knows. Please no be eating Babolax now.”

“No one’s going to eat you,” Steve said, standing up and pushing his chair in. “I can assure you of that. Someone will be in shortly to return you to your cell.”

He knocked on the door, heard the latch turn, and let the door swing open. He passed through the doorway, deep in thought. If true, this was a concerning piece of news. His gut told him that this goblin was telling him what he believed to be the truth, but goblins were well-known exaggerators, and could often convince themselves of a lie if repeated often enough. They’d keep the goblin for at least a few more days, see if his story changed, then figure out what to do with him. They couldn’t send him back to Menzoberranzan, but they couldn’t just kill him, either. He might be a goblin, but he hadn’t done anything to deserve that. Steve thought he’d have to keep working at Babolax, then do a little research of his own, see if he could find any other sources to confirm or deny this report.

\------------

“And what did the goblin call it again?” Sam asked, pausing briefly to give a smile and a nod and a thanks to the barmaid bringing his and Steve’s drinks to them at their usual table in the corner of the pub.

“A ‘very big dangerous secret human weapon,’ and every attempt to get more detail out of him was met with some variation of that, sometimes with the word ‘cold’ thrown in. I don’t think he actually ever saw the weapon, only repeated what few things he overheard his drow mistress say about it. I doubt the drow would have allowed him to overhear anything of much importance, even if they had overlooked his presence as beneath their notice,” Steve replied. He took a deep breath, sighed out some of his frustration, and sipped his ale.

Sam nodded his agreement. “Yeah, that sounds about right. I’ll start getting the word out among the rangers. I’ll ask around if anyone’s heard rumors of drow raiders or drow weapons. There hasn’t been a substantiated raid in nearly a year, but we’ll be ready for them when they come.”

“We will,” Steve agreed heartily.

“But,” Sam added, “we rangers _have_ heard a few reports over the past six months from traders, adventurers, and some of the outlying villages and about sealed crates being broken open with most of their valuable contents left behind, storerooms rifled through, and odd things going missing that people have been quick to blame on drow scouts.”

“That’s odd behavior for drow,” Steve said, wrinkling his brow.

“I know,” Sam agreed. “Drow aren’t common sneak-thieves. And one small band of adventurers swears to every god and goddess in all the realms that they were awakened one moonless night in their camp by a drow poking through their packs. They say the only thing stolen was a pair of what they called ‘goggles of night,’ which allowed the wearer to see in pitch darkness. Drow can already see in their lightless world, so why would they need those goggles? Far more likely some rogue decided that such a valuable item would benefit them. In the dark, one cloak looks much like another, and what better way to frighten one’s marks than to make it look like a piwafwi? After all, what human’s going to chase after a drow in the dark? The drow has clear advantage, even when outnumbered.”

“Oh, sure, rub it in that we humans are one of the few races who can’t see in the dark,” Steve teased, grinning.

“Hey, I may have my mother’s eyes, but my father was a human. I’m only half-elven and quite fond of _both_ halves of my heritage,” Sam countered, giving Steve a friendly elbow.

Steve laughed, then sighed again, grin disappearing as his thoughts returned again to the goblin’s tale. He looked down into his ale, twisting the mug around in his hands. “This goblin is a more complicated problem than I like. On one hand, I find the word of a goblin to be far less reliable than we need it to be, but on the other hand, this lull in drow activity might very well substantiate his claim. And if it does, then we need to be on our guard, need to find out what this weapon consists of and how they plan to use it against us.”

“If the goblin’s telling the truth, we’ll find out,” Sam said. “The word will go out, and if anyone knows anything, hears anything, even the most preposterous rumors, information will come back to us. Silverymoon will be ready as ever when the drow come, secret weapon or no.”


	5. Chapter 4 – The Spider’s Web

House Schaede was the First House of Menzoberranzan. Every House and every houseless looked up to them, feared them, wished to be them. Or, nearly every houseless. As head of the First House, as the highest of Lolth’s high priestesses, it galled Matron Mother Sinthea to no end that her goddess should have to endure the presence of a cult of Zinzerena in her city. Blasphemers, all of them, Matron Sinthea thought, gripping the arm of her chair—more of a throne, really—as she waited for her guest to arrive. And she knew that while Lolth and Zinzerena may have a wary truce, she also knew that her goddess would be _well_ pleased with her if she could manage to reduce the number of Zinerena’s followers in her city. The only way to kill a deity was to kill their followers; true divine power lay in the people. What was a goddess with no faithful to exhort her with their prayers and paeans?

Matron Sinthea tapped her long nails against the stone armrest, waiting. She hadn’t become Matron Mother of the First House without knowing a thing or two about the minds and the motivations of her fellow drow, especially those noble-born. Hierarchy was everything. The higher one’s House, the better life one would live. And what a spur the desire for safety and comfort was. The last survivor of the former House Bel’ova desired nothing more than the return to the affluence and the comforts that one of the eight Ruling Council families could provide. And to be folded into the Schaede family? What more could a Menzoberranyr drow desire? 

A faint chime, audible only to her, sounded, and Matron Sinthea snapped her fingers. A goblin slave practically sprinted up to the foot of her throne. 

“Yes Matron Mother? What do yous wishes?” the goblin said in rudimentary drow. Though all drow who passed through the schools of Tier Breche, even the brief education received by commoners, understood the common pidgin of the Underdark, nobles rarely deigned to speak any but the native language of the drow. It was unbecoming.

“Light the candles. My guest arrives,” Matron Sinthea ordered.

The goblin bowed obsequiously, ran to fetch flint and tinder, and returned rapidly to light the precious candles. For a drow, whose eyes were sensitive to visible light to the point of pain, to order the lighting of any kind of fire, it must be a special occasion indeed, an _honored_ guest. The goblin struck the flint carefully, watching as the sparks caught the wick of the first candle, used that to light the second candle, and then placed the heavy silk shades over the candles, diffusing their light. He looked up at the Matron Mother. She didn’t even blink in the light. One finger flicked, dismissing him. He scurried out of the room.

\----------

Yelena squinted against the light as the doors opened to the Schaede family chapel. She thought she could make out the figure of Matron Sinthea seated on her throne on the dais at the head of the chapel, flanked by two bright flames. Letting her eyes adjust to the visible spectrum, she stepped forward towards the dais. And nearly stumbled when she saw Matron Schaede in the light. Typical drow hair was stark white, but Matron Sinthea’s hair was an unnatural blood red, elaborately braided and coiled close to her skull. In darkvision, her hair looked no different from any other drow’s; she showed her wealth and power by acquiring precious goods from the World Above, dyes and candles, lighting _fires_, simply to intimidate those who came to see her.

Yelena didn’t care to admit it, but it was working. This female before her was clearly a drow of _power_. She climbed the dais to the foot of the throne and knelt low in obeisance before the Matron Mother of House Schaede.

“Matron Sinthea has summoned me and I have come,” Yelena said, eyes still on the floor. “What does one as powerful as you, Matron Mother, wish from someone as lowly as myself?”

“Rise, child,” Matron Sinthea commanded. “And fear not, your ‘_Web_’,” the condescension in her voice quite evident, “knows nothing of where you are. They believe you off on a legitimate call. Listen carefully, for I will not repeat myself. I had heard whispers that a daughter of House Bel’ova survived the massacre decades ago. If true, why had she not come forward to accuse the offending house? Why not indeed. If she had been taken in by blasphemers, indoctrinated into their lies, stolen away from the arms of our true goddess Lolth, that would explain why. I would tell you to go before the Council and explain your claim, but the offending house, too, has been destroyed, grown too greedy with their believed success against House Bel’ova.

“Where then would a daughter of House Bel’ova turn if she found herself wishing for justice? And who would she seek justice against?” Matron Sinthea held her hands out in a gesture of questioning. “Worry not, child, I have the answers you desire. The blasphemers who serve the unworthy Zinzerena lead you to believe that you had no place in drow society but their tangled and poisoned web. This is untrue. House Schaede has room for you. All that we require is your assistance. One night, we will decide when, you will silence the alarms and stifle the protective runes around the Widows’ Web. You will set a magical beacon, and I shall send my Soldier to help you destroy the Black Widows. He requires a proper test, and I believe this will prove sufficient.”

“You are sending soldiers?” Yelena asked, surprised, and unable to stop herself from speaking. She flinched as Matron Sinthea glared down at her.

“Not soldiers, not drow,” Matron Sinthea expounded, unable (or unwilling) not to brag about her little project. “A human thrall. I call him the Soldier because that is his duty. And if he proves obedient and competent assisting you in the destruction of the Black Widows, then he shall be sent to the World Above to sow chaos. A human may pass without suspicion in the burning light of the World Above. Send him often enough, and villages, towns, entire regions can be destabilized, weakening them and leaving them unprepared for our raids. Then we will take what we deserve—revenge against the wicked faerie elves and all the goods and wealth we have been denied by the dwellers in the World Above.”

Yelena gasped. “Oh, Matron Mother, that is ingenious.”

“It is, is it not?” Matron Sinthea preened. A goblin slave scurried into the room with a tiny brass bowl, filled with a pungent liquor, and a small, thin torch about the size of a stick of incense. “I have one more thing you must do for me before I send you back.”

“Anything you ask, Matron Mother.”

“Take this bowl and hold out your right hand over it.”

Yelena obeyed.

Matron Sinthea pulled out her ceremonial dagger from her belt and quickly nicked Yelena’s first finger. Her blood dripped into the bowl, mingling with the liquor. Matron Sinthea flicked the torch into the flame of one of the candles and whisked it quickly over to dip into the bowl. She muttered a few words as the liquor caught fire in a brief but brilliant blaze.

Yelena nearly dropped the bowl in surprise, squeezing her eyes shut against the painful brightness, but managed to steady herself. It would not do for her to show weakness in front of the Matron Mother of House Schaede. 

“It is done,” Matron Sinthea announced as the flames died out as quickly as they lit. “This bowl shall serve as the beacon. Place it under your bed and it will call to you, and you alone, when it is time. If you wish to join House Schaede and level justice on the blasphemers who tried to steal you away from our true goddess, you will not fail.”

“I shall not fail,” Yelena repeated. She bowed again as Matron Sinthea dismissed her.

\--------------------

“Success as usual?” Natasha asked as Yelena slipped back in late that evening.

“Of course,” Yelena answered flippantly.

“Wait, your finger… you’re injured,” Natasha said, noticing the minute wound as Yelena passed her. “Are you sure you left no evidence?”

“None at all,” Yelena replied. “It’s barely a scratch, it will heal. Though, perhaps I may listen a little more closely when you speak of using distance to your advantage,” she added with a laugh.

Natasha smirked and shook her head.


	6. Chapter 5 – The Soldier and the Assassin

Yelena was a seasoned Black Widow. She did not show her emotions if it did not suit her. If she were to admit it to herself, there _were_ a few things she was grateful to the Widows’ Web for teaching her. She pushed her nerves down and ate her dinner in silence with her fellow Widows. If the plan was to succeed, there must be no evidence of her betrayal. The bowl beneath her bed had whispered to her as she slept, telling her tonight is the night, all must be set and ready. She knew very well how crucial it would be that she play her part without the slightest error. If she were to be discovered, the Widows would kill her without remorse as a traitor. The price of failure was steep, but Yelena was confident. The Widows had taught her to succeed.

She ate her dinner and waited. When the time was right, she would bring the Schaedes’ Soldier in and then…? Yelena smiled secretly to herself. Then, she would have a House again.

\-----------

Natasha woke abruptly, a soft, familiar sound drawing her out of her sleep—the sound a body makes when its throat is cut and it breathes its last. She lay still in her bed, suddenly hyperaware of her surroundings, trying to take in as much information as she could before the intruder realized she was awake. She parted her eyelids just enough to peer into the room, eyes darting from side to side. She saw the cold darkness of the sheer, windowless, stone walls of the Widows’ dormitory and warm, sleeping bodies in all the cots. No movement, nothing. Everyone sleeping except for her. She shifted as if turning in her sleep and slipped her hand under her pillow to grasp her knife. She waited, ready to spring if anyone entered the dormitory. The Widows’ Web was protected by wards and sigils, but even those could be broken by the very talented and very persistent.

Natasha blinked. She thought she had seen movement, a cold, dark shape against the cold darkness of the walls. It wasn’t the camouflage of a piwafwi, she knew what that looked like. This was a shadow of a shadow, a trick of her brain. _Had_ she seen anything? Heard anything? The four other Widows slept as if nothing had happened. If something had been there, then they surely would have woken. Perhaps she was being too suspicious. 

She waited. Natasha relaxed her body, keeping herself limber and ready to strike, but with all the appearance of being deep asleep. She clutched her knife.

Then, chaos. The whisper of a blade and the death-spasms of one of her fellow Widows, unmistakable this time. Natasha’s eyes flew open and she sprang to her feet, knife in hand, a movement mirrored by the three remaining living Widows. Natasha decided the sound that first woke her must have been the Headmistress’s death, given her worrying non-appearance. Valaeriya’s body lay in her bed, cooling blood pooling around the ragged, grinning wound in her neck. A smear of darkness between them, a flash of dim green faerie fire erupted over Aniicha’s body, cast by Dina, trying to catch the shadow, then another cry that became abruptly a gurgle as she fell in a spray of blood. The spell faded as its caster died. Aniicha wove and rolled, trying to make her position less clear. Natasha darted away, putting as much distance between her and her foe or foes as she could, trying to track the shadow, track her allies.

Slowing her breathing, Natasha focused on the limited magic native within every drow. If she could find her hidden foe, she could cast faerie fire upon them, illuminate their form and give her a target, like Dina had tried and failed to do. She knew not what magic was keeping her foe hidden, but she knew that attempting to counter it was her best hope of survival, even if it meant expending the not insignificant energy to twist the Weave and draw forth the magic innate within her.

Yelena cried out, dropping to the ground and rolling to dodge an unseen strike. Natasha pivoted towards the cry to see if she could find the attacker, but saw nothing but darkness. The brief distraction was all her enemy needed, and Natasha felt arms, strong and unnaturally cold, wrap around her, pinning her arms to her sides. She couldn’t tell if her foe was armored or not—one arm felt pliant like flesh, but the other hard and metallic like platemail, as cold as ice to the touch but invisible against their surroundings. What kind of magic _was_ this? She called out to her fellow Widows, asking any of them to target _her_ with the spell. She would accept the disadvantage of faerie fire if it meant her invisible foe would also be illuminated. She struggled against the grasp, squirming and trying to keep her foe off-balance, keep their knife from her neck. She felt it pierce her shoulder, cutting through her thin nightshirt and through her skin, slicing into the muscle. The sleeve tore away, tangling around her arm, the wound burned with icy pain, but she was still alive, and as long as she was alive, she would fight.

A flash of violet as Aniicha’s spell burst around her. Natasha’s eyes watered as the light, dim though it was to non-drow eyes, assaulted her vision at such a close range. The arm around her glowed in the same hue, and she took her opportunity to attack. She brought her knife up to slice at the wrist where she could reach it. She felt a stinging cold rush over her hand and forearm as her knife sliced into her foe’s flesh, but she gritted her teeth and held onto her weapon. Her foe grunted and loosened their grip; Natasha went limp, dropping abruptly down, freeing herself. She rolled back to her feet just in time to see Yelena’s dagger fly across the room and embed itself deep in Aniicha’s neck, severing her spine.

Aniicha fell. Natasha screamed in rage. She caught a brief glimpse of her foe, limned in cold violet flames, before Aniicha’s spell ended. A male, with odd crystalline lenses over his eyes, like the smoked quartz the high priestesses wore during fire rituals, and _not_ a drow. He was taller than even the tallest drow female she had seen, and of no race she had ever seen before in Menzoberranzan. _Human_, a little part of her mind suggested. She had heard stories of the humans who lived in the World Above, foes of the drow, allies to the faerie elves who had warred with the drow and banished them to the darkness so many millennia ago. But humans did not have darkvision like the drow did. They could not see in the pitch black of the Underdark. She must be mistaken; he could not be human. Perhaps he was a particularly tall orc, one of the half-breeds they sometimes encountered.

But whatever he was, he was injured, too, now. His blood dripped from his wound, and unless he took the time to bind his wrist and stop the bleeding, he would leave a trail for her to follow, a target to aim for. Yelena stepped forward, blocking Natasha’s path and trying to distract her from the invisible assailant, leave her vulnerable. It had been no misthrow of Yelena’s, no unfortunate error in the chaos of close combat that had slain Aniicha.

“_Why?_” Natasha asked, her voice low and vicious as she disentangled her ruined sleeve from her arm. Yelena had betrayed her _family_, had betrayed the friendship Natasha had thought they had shared. Natasha sidestepped, keeping active, keeping on her toes. She kept Yelena in her sight and tried to find her camouflaged foe, tried to follow the blood drops before they cooled, tried to listen for movement, breathing, tried to feel for slight shifts in the air, tried to see the subtlest changes in temperature of the walls around her that would indicate the presence of her cold foe.

“Why _not_? The Widows stole my name, my legacy,” Yelena called back, circling. “I will earn back my place by ending this web of lies and treachery.”

“Your House is dead and gone, long since turned to dust. You would have been slaughtered with the rest of your accursed family in the power struggles of the high Houses had the Widows not taken you in. Who else would accept a princess of a failed House and eradicated name, marked for death by every tradition you seem to hold dear? The nobles of this city care for nothing but power and hierarchy. If you cannot give them either of those, you are worth less to them than scum on a fish-pond,” Natasha said, trying to keep her voice calm, in spite of her inner worries. Her shoulder hurt, skin frost-burned, wound still bleeding freely, and she feared it would hamper her if her foes could close in on her. Despite her efforts, she had not yet located her shadowy enemy. He must be here somewhere, waiting, biding his time, but she could not find him. She swallowed back the icy fear of being forced to face an opponent who could hide from even her.

“I will destroy the Black Widows!” Yelena screamed, stooping briefly to wrench her dagger free from Aniicha’s neck. She charged at Natasha. “And in doing so, I will earn back my rightful place in Menzoberranzan!”

Slashing out wildly with her knife as she sidestepped, Natasha dodged Yelena’s charge, drawing an angry snarl from the drow she had once considered her friend. Conflicting emotions swirled within her. She was a _Black Widow_, she wasn’t supposed to have emotions—they were practiced killers to whom assassination came naturally, acts of devotion to please their goddess. But this treachery stirred feelings of anger, betrayal, confusion, disappointment in her. Weakness. To have believed that she could have a friend had made her weak, had hidden from her the signs of treason in the Web. 

“They lied to you. No House will accept you,” Natasha called back, eyes darting around the room, trying to find anything that could help her. She had never considered being outnumbered to be a disadvantage—it never _had_ been before. If she wanted to live, she would have to make her move soon to escape the confines of the dormitory. She didn’t dare turn her back on Yelena, given her prowess at throwing knives. If she could see Yelena, then she stood a chance of dodging the blade. To show her back was to paint herself as a bright target, but to focus on Yelena was to leave herself vulnerable to the shadowed foe. His wrist still bled, fresh blood hot and bright against the cold stone, but the flow had slowed leaving his whereabouts in question. Questionable, but not unknowable if she focused.

“No, it is you who have been lied to,” Yelena replied, tossing her knife lightly from hand to hand, waiting for her opportunity. “I have already been taken in by a House of power and prestige. They _want_ me. All I have to do now is kill you and my place is assured.”

“What happens if you fail?” Natasha asked, stalling as she began to formulate a plan. 

“I will not fail. I learned from you—you cannot outmaneuver me, you cannot outthink me. My House has provided for me, and you are outmatched. Accept your fate,” Yelena crowed, circling slowly closer to Natasha.

Natasha paused briefly, as if unsure of her next move. Yelena was between her and the doorway. If the nearly cool blood trail told true, her invisible foe had taken up a position next to the single door, waiting for her to attempt an escape. She could throw her knife at him, risking it being deflected by his magical armor, and leaving herself unarmed and vulnerable. She could attempt to dodge his inevitable attack, but Yelena would seize the opportunity. If she attacked Yelena, surely he would move to her defense, and she didn’t believe her shoulder would allow her to fight off two enemies at close range. There was an option, but it was a risky gambit. It would put her at the same disadvantage as Yelena, and she would have to seek deep within her to find the energy to cast two spells in quick succession. Just because the ability to cast a few specific spells came naturally to all drow, didn’t mean it was effortless. She steeled herself.

Taking a deep breath, focusing her mind, Natasha appeared to drop her guard. Her body relaxed visibly. Yelena grinned, wide and predatory. She closed on Natasha, ready to make the killing strike. Just before Yelena came within arm’s length of her, an orb of utter darkness, impenetrable even by drow vision, bloomed and expanded around Natasha, enveloping her and Yelena. This magical darkness, however, was only the beginning of her plan. The Black Widows had been trained to fight in this blind darkness, relying on their other senses. Natasha only had the briefest moment of Yelena’s surprise to dodge her knife. As soon as Yelena had passed her, her startled gasp loud in the inky blackness, Natasha dispelled the darkness and cast faerie fire in its place. 

Natasha squeezed her eyes tightly shut against the light, drawing deep within her for every ounce of magic she could, the cold flames flaring more brightly than usual and licking out wide over the room. The light clawed at Natasha’s closed eyelids, and Yelena howled with pain as the faerie fire dazzled her sensitive eyes.

Yelena’s knife clattered against the stone floor.


	7. Chapter 6 – Echoes and Repercussions

_Now_.

Natasha dashed forward to where she knew the doorway stood. She knew her invisible foe stood between her and her freedom, but she prayed that he, too, was startled, maybe even blinded, by the turquoise faerie fire. She slashed out wildly with her knife as she reached the doorway. She felt the bite of steel in her arm, an icy chill blooming over the wound, as she passed, but so too did she feel the catch of her knife in flesh and the same numbing cold that had spread over her hand when she had injured him before. Her fingers spasmed and she dropped her weapon, but she was through the doorway and out of the immediate fray. She fled, eyes still shut against lingering faerie fire and its unnatural brightness. 

Casting the spell so brightly had drained her, but Natasha’s flight response pushed her onwards, fighting fatigue to try to reach somewhere safe. She would have to flee the city, but if it meant she would live, then she could find a new home. The Widows’ Web had been her home, her shelter, her refuge for nearly a century, but she couldn’t afford to be sentimental about it. She had to stay alive. Her cold-numbed hands fumbled and found the knob of the outer door of the Widows’ Web and she whispered the secret words to unlock it, slipping through. Shutting the door behind her, she blinked her eyes against the residual lights, sparkling in her vision, made more apparent in the darkness of the sleeping-hours. Narbondel was fully dark, not yet reawakened by the Archmage of the city for the start of the day.

Natasha entered the street, knowing how out of place she looked in only her bloodied nightclothes. Those who had reason (or those who did not) to be out in the nighttime dressed for their tasks, cloaked in dark piwafwis. She had not had time to stop and grab hers, and unless she found one unattended she would have to go without and pray that Zinzerena had enough power and influence to keep her safe until she had reached the city wall. She couldn’t stay in Menzoberranzan. She had never been outside of its walls, but even the tales of the perilous wilds of the Underdark could not deter her. Better to take that gamble than to remain in the city where whichever high House had marked her for death would inevitably find her, no matter where or how well she hid.

She pushed forward.

\-----------------------------

Yelena gave a sigh of relief as the faerie fire faded and died as abruptly as it had flared to life. Her eyes watered with pain and her vision was bleached white, only the vaguest outlines of shapes discernable, as she knelt on the floor, head spinning with the overstimulation. Her relief rapidly turned to fear, turning her stomach as she realized what the cessation of the lights meant: Natasha was too far away to maintain her concentration on the spell. She had failed in her mission to eradicate the Black Widows. Natasha was injured, but she was still _alive_, somewhere out there in the city.

Yelena startled at the light touch of a cold hand on her shoulder, but she managed to compose herself as she realized who it was. The Schaede’s Soldier, offering her his hand to help her to her feet. She accepted, thanking him. Perhaps this was not a complete failure. He had proved nearly impossible to track in the darkness with the cold spell enveloping him, and had shown no hesitation in following his orders to kill the sleeping Headmistress or the fighting Widows. She would return with him to House Schaede and report—_honestly_—to the Matron Mother the night’s events. Once she had recovered from the blinding lights, once the Soldier had had his wounds treated, they would set out and find Natasha and finish the job.

\------------------

Natasha crept through the Braeryn, utilizing every back alley and hidden pathway she could remember. She had to move stealthily but quickly—had to make it out of the city before the populace began to wake for the day. She needed to find a way out of the city, something she had never needed to know before. If she could make it to the wall undetected, maybe she could find a way past it. If the city needed patrols to keep itself safe from its enemies and the beasts of the Underdark, then there must be ways in and out besides the main gates.

She pushed on.

\-------------------------

Yelena stood before Matron Sinthea, scared out of her wits. The Matron Mother of House Schaede, usually unreadable, looked disappointed. Matron Sinthea circled slowly around her Soldier, murmuring the words to lift the spell that kept him hidden from the drow’s darkvision. As he became fully visible, she frowned at the extent of his wounds; a gash on his right wrist, clotting but ragged, another in the flesh of the upper arm, still bleeding slowly.

“I should not have thought I would have had to _armor_ my Soldier for a simple stealth mission with a trained assassin. My magic and your purported skillset should have been enough, and yet you return him to me bloodied. The one who did this, she is dead, I assume?” Matron Sinthea asked, her voice flat and venomous.

Yelena paused, unwilling or unable to answer directly. “Matron Mother, forgive me, but one target awoke before we could finish our job. Forgive also my asking, but if he could be armored so,” she gestured towards the Soldier’s left arm, covered in metal plates so flush to the arm as to appear to be skin, so finely jointed as to move without even a whisper, “could that not be made to cover his whole body?”

“That is not armor, that is his _arm_, and its creation cost me dearly. I had to have the raw metal stolen from the World Above because our adamantine rots in the accused sun’s light,” Matron Sinthia snapped. “He came to me damaged, wounded. My surgeons fixed him with this metal limb, made him better than before, and I sculpted him into my perfect Soldier. Armor should not have been necessary for the task I gave you! You and he were to kill sleeping drow in their beds, something even the simplest male trainees in Melee-Magthere can manage on their own.”

“But the trainees there compete against each other, they have every reason to wish a rival dead,” Yelena said, the words spilling desperately from her mouth.

“And _you_ did not? I ask again: is the one who did this to my soldier dead?” Matron Sinthea asked, one hand protectively, possessively on the Soldier’s injured arm even as her surgeons arrived to take him away to have his wounds cared for.

“She escaped,” Yelena answered in a whisper, shrinking from Matron Sinthea’s blazing stare. “But I can track her, I can find her again, take care of her for you—”

Matron Sinthea lashed out, striking Yelena with her open hand, knocking her to the floor, a hot, angry welt rising on her cheek. “I gave you a simple task! You could not complete it. You are unworthy of the name of House Schaede, you are unworthy of the title ‘assassin.’ I should have left you where you were, let your ‘_sisters_’ deal with the traitor in their midst. You made a blood promise to me to eliminate the Widows’ Web and you broke that promise. Blood must be repaid with blood.”

Yelena’s eyes darted wildly around the room, looking for the escape she knew she would never find.

\-------------------------

Natasha collapsed onto the floor of the small cave, exhausted. She had climbed, injured arm, numbed fingers, and exhausted body protesting in pain with every movement. She had climbed up the rough cliff face and through the wide tunnels, ever upward, to this narrow crevice. The opening was small, barely large enough for her to squeeze through, but that just meant that it was unlikely anyone or anything else would be able to follow her in. It was an unexpected blessing that it had opened up into a little cavern a few feet beyond the opening. The little cave was warmer than she was used to, but as she glanced around and saw no body heat, she found a sheltered nook, curled up, and allowed herself to fall into a deep sleep. 


	8. Chapter 7 – The Cave

Tymora must be smiling down upon us today, Sam thought. Well, he hoped it was Tymora, and not her more fickle sister Beshaba. He had been on his way back to Silverymoon when he had been flagged down by a distressed man who introduced himself as the foreman leading the work on the new Dancing Bear Winery being built just past the southern tip of the Cold Wood.

“I swear it, Ander says there’s a drow sleeping or hiding or something in the back-end of that twisty cave that the new winery wants broken down for their cellars,” the foreman said, wringing his cloth cap in his hands. “He’s a good worker, but a bit slow. He doesn’t tend towards exaggeration, so if he says he’s seen a drow, then he’s sure he has. I’ve called all my workers back out and set a guard, but I think you should come see. We’re none of us sure what we should do.”

“You did well clearing the cave and setting a guard,” Sam said. “Give me a moment to send off a message, then you can lead me there, and I can see if I can handle this problem on my own or if I’ll need to wait until backup arrives.”

“Oh, thank you,” the foreman said, inclining his head. “We’re all grateful to you rangers for your service to our fair city and her lands.”

“It’s our duty and my pleasure,” Sam replied, nodding back. He dug in his beltpouch for his travel-quill and ink and a scrap of parchment, scribbled off a quick note on the parchment, and secured it in the little tube on Redwing’s leg. He murmured a few words in the magical language that let him communicate with animals, and sent the hawk off to deliver the message to the Moon Garrison.

\----------------

Sam stepped into the cave, nowhere near finished for its future task of storing casks of wine. As he moved forward, the sunlight behind him dimmed, eventually diminishing to blackness as the passageway twisted. The stonecutters would have their work cut out for them to get this cave into any shape for a wine cellar, he thought as he pushed forward through the twists and turns. As quickly as the thought appeared, he shook his head, banishing it from his mind. That was a distraction he didn’t need with a potential drow lying in wait ahead of him. Though he was quite well-trained enough to hold his own against a lone drow in single combat, he would need to be alert, ready for whatever would come. He held his shortsword at the ready and moved cautiously forward.

The cave walls narrowed further as Sam continued in, leaving little room to maneuver traditional weapons; he hoped it would open up again as he went, but he knew he should prepare as if it would not. Though rangers didn’t have the same control of magic that wizards or druids had, he knew a good handful of useful spells to help him in his duties. Mentally running through his list, he decided on a couple that could prove useful in close-quarters combat. Taking advantage of the narrowness of the cave passage, he knelt to begin setting his first spell.

\--------------

Natasha awoke slowly to a bright light and heavy footsteps on stone. Struggling through exhaustion and blinded by the light, she fought her way back to alertness. As she blinked awake, the footsteps stopped, then receded rapidly, taking the light with them. Had Yelena and her shadow managed to track her? No, they wouldn’t need light; her only consolation. She groaned silently as she stood, still sore from her fight and her flight. She wished she still had her knife on her, but she would make do, defending herself with anything at hand; she stooped to pick up a stone. She waited, hidden, trying to determine where the footsteps had come from, trying to determine how many feet, whether they would return, and what kind of a danger they might prove. She had to decide whether she would disappear back from where she had come, or if she would have to fight her way forward. To go back was to put herself into known danger, Yelena and her shadow and whichever House had tried to exterminate the Widows. To go forward was to face the unknown.

She stopped, breathless, waiting for the footsteps to return. They did not, but that didn’t mean she was safe. She crouched down onto the balls of her feet, steeling herself for a fight she didn’t want. She waited. 

_There_, the footsteps again. Natasha paused to listen. One person, light on their feet, different feet from before. Not drow, though. They sounded too large, too loud. Far too loud, also, for the shadow. The shadow was large, but as light on his feet as any drow. This person or creature walked lightly, but still too heavily to be a resident of the Underdark, where to tread so would be to broadcast one’s location to every monster around. Between these footsteps and the light earlier, she must be nearing the World Above, a thought that filled her with dread. She had heard tales of that place, how during the hours of the day, it burned under a light called ‘sun’ far more brilliant than any faerie fire or Narbondel at its brightest. Even the nighttime in the World Above was lighted, tales came back with the raiders, told and retold hundreds of times as they passed through the strata of Menzoberranzan, of pale fires in the sky that twinkled like tiny pinpricks of faerie fire. These tales, rumors, stories, how much truth they had in them, she wasn’t sure. The only thing she _was_ sure of was the need to move forward, away from the Underdark. She would take her chances in the World Above. If she had to, she could find a dark cave, away from the light, sleep during the day and wake at night. She was a survivor, and no matter the difficulties, she would find a way to survive.

She pushed forward, crouching down low and creeping along the wall of the cave, noting as the passage twisted and narrowed the further along she went. The blind curves would allow her a degree of camouflage, but if she were to come face to face with whoever’s footsteps she was hearing, she would have to turn tail and run; there wouldn’t be enough room for her to squeeze past anything larger than a particularly runty goblin. She turned her stone over in her hand and continued moving.

Lost in her thoughts, focused on the source of the sound and her nebulous future, Natasha didn’t notice the faint circle etched into the floor of the cave. Suddenly, without warning, she felt the air leave her lungs as if she had been punched in the gut. Startled, she tumbled, head over feet, dropping her stone, which clinked loudly onto the cave floor, as she was lifted into the air by her ankles. She twisted wildly, cursing out loud in her momentary panic, trying to figure out what had happened to her. 

Her hands didn’t quite reach the cave floor as she dangled, but she found that she could touch her hands to the walls easily enough. Natasha reached out to stop her slow spin, turning herself to face the direction where she had heard the footsteps. She wriggled her ankles, but they were bound tightly, ensnared in whatever magical trap she had blundered into. She cursed her naivety, her distraction, her exhaustion. Just because there hadn’t been any sigils or wards _yet_ didn’t mean there _wouldn’t_ be any. If she couldn’t notice a simple snare trap, she shouldn’t be allowed to call herself a Black Widow. She gave an angry grunt, bent her waist, and began to lift herself up, climbing the cave walls slowly, braced on her hands. Her best hope now was to try to reach her ankles and disentangle them from the snare as quickly as she could.

\--------------

Sam heard the startled, angry voice from around the bend in the cave passage. His snare had caught something—or someone. Though he didn’t immediately recognize the language of the words, he could tell that they _were_ words, not mere bestial snarls. He crept quickly but cautiously forward, shortsword in hand, second spell readied. If he had, in fact, snared a drow, he would have precious little time before they managed to cut themselves loose.

Lifting his shortsword in a defensive posture, Sam rounded the corner, fully prepared to face the wicked scimitars of an angry drow raider. What he found was a dirty, tired-looking female drow in what appeared to be torn nightclothes, attempting to untie the magical snare around her ankles. _Untie_. Which meant she was uncharacteristically unarmed, and unlikely to be a high-level spellcaster, either. He stopped short, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Something tickled at the back of his mind, some tales his grandmother had told him from her youth. It was rare, but she had said that when she was a young child, her village had adopted a drow defector. One night, a lone drow had stumbled into the village, bloodied and exhausted, begging them in halting Elvish not to kill him. He had been born to wealth and power in Ched Nasad, but had grown to detest what the nobility did, what little concern they seemed to have even for their own people, for anything but their pleasures and power struggles. He had fled the Underdark and come to the World Above, to throw himself to the mercies of what he had called the ‘faerie elves,’ his people’s sworn enemies. If he lived, he lived. If he died, then he would die knowing that he would no longer be subsumed beneath the overpowering will of Lolth and her high priestesses’ cruelties. Could this drow dangling before Sam be a defector? There was only one way to know for certain: he’d have to take her alive, bring her back to Silverymoon for questioning.

\-------------

Natasha lost her grip on her ankles and dropped back down, cursing with pain and frustration as she swung and knocked into the wall again, bruising her back and injured arm. She gritted her teeth and let the snare rotate slowly, eyes squeezed shut against the motion and the pain. When she opened them again, she found a figure before her, male, bearded but with elven features, and dressed in no style she had ever seen in the Underdark. Even from her inverted position, she could tell he was taller and broader than any drow, but not as tall as the shadow Yelena had brought into the Widows’ Web. Was he one of the faerie elves of the World Above, come to kill her? She had escaped death once already, she wasn’t about to go down without a fight. She bared her teeth and cast darkness on him just as he stepped forward to strike.

His sword slapped against her arm, the flat of the blade, _not_ the edge. Instead of slicing into her flesh, the sword instead erupted into a tangle of vines, twisting and wrapping around her, binding her arms tightly to her sides and restraining her movement. She swore at him, all the worst curses she could call to mind. Were the faerie elves truly so cruel as to leave their enemies helpless before dispatching them? She would kill without mercy, but she had never toyed with her victims.

“If you’re going to kill me, then be done with it,” Natasha spat at her foe.

“I do not wish to kill you,” he replied in stiff, if fairly fluent, Drow.

“Who are you that you speak my language?” Natasha asked the figure, still enveloped in her darkness spell.

“Lift your spell and I will tell you,” he replied calmly.

“For what reason should I trust you?”

“I have none, only my word.”

Natasha pursed her lips and let herself rotate in silence until she was once again facing the orb of darkness. She sighed, speaking a silent entreaty to her chaotic goddess. _Zinzerena, my fate is in your hands. If I must die, let him kill me as soon as he sees me. If I am to live, then so be it, I will let this faerie elf do what he will._

She let the spell fall.


	9. Chapter 8 – Trust?

“Thank you,” Sam said, sheathing his sword—an immense show of trust. “I should introduce myself. I am Samuel, Sam for short. You don’t have to tell me your name, but it will make things easier if I have something to address you by.”

The drow glared at him, pink eyes boring into him, looking like she were considering her words carefully. She remained silent long enough to prompt Sam to try a different tack.

“This must be uncomfortable for you. Would you prefer I cut you down before we speak more?” Sam asked, placing his hand slowly on the hilt of a dagger, but not closing his fingers to draw it yet.

“Fine. Do what you will; cut me down,” the drow replied, the dual meaning of her words clear, her voice resigned.

“Try to relax, it will make it easier when you fall,” Sam said, approaching slowly, his body language open, safe, even with his dagger in his hand.

The drow glared fire up at him, but she sighed and appeared to relax a little. Sam stepped up and sawed carefully through the snare rope with his dagger. The drow dropped heavily to the floor of the cave, landing with a whump, but barely even an inhalation of breath to show that the fall had hurt.

“Is that better?” Sam asked, putting the dagger away and deciding to err on the side of politeness. He wasn’t sure _what_ to make of this drow, _why_ she had come up to the surface. She was oddly surly for a defector, or oddly incompetent for a scout. “I will untie your ankles if you promise not to run. I am going to have to take you back to Silverymoon for some questions. But first, are you injured or just in need of a wash?”

The drow narrowed her eyes at him, mouth twisting into a frown. An uncomfortable silence passed before she grumbled a quiet, resigned “Where would I run to?” not really answering his question, still lying on her back on the cave floor.

“Well then, that’s settled,” Sam said with a dry laugh. He knelt down to untie the snare rope, but left the magical vines in place.

Sam braced himself for a kick to the face as soon as her feet were free, but none came. An odd drow, indeed. He helped her to her feet, holding her as gently as he could. He was getting a feeling that she wasn’t purposely hostile, her behavior more like a wounded animal who had been backed into a corner. She seemingly hadn’t _chosen_ to come to the surface, but instead had been driven here by forces outside of her control. So if he was to be her first contact with the surface-dwellers, he would do his best to give her a good impression. As soon as she was steady on her feet again, Sam pulled his traveling cloak out of his pack and held it up for her to see.

“It’s going to be very bright when we leave this cave, would you like to put this on, protect your eyes?” Sam said, giving his cloak a quick shake to fully unfurl it. “The hood isn’t very deep, but it should be better than nothing.”

“Fine,” the drow said with a shrug and a frown.

Sam carefully draped the cloak around her shoulders, hooking the clasp so it wouldn’t fall off, and pulling the hood up over her head.

“Alright, time to leave this cave,” Sam said, putting one hand on her shoulder. Firm enough to hopefully discourage her from trying to make a break for it, but gentle enough to he hoped she could understand that he didn’t _want_ to hurt her. He urged her forward.

\-----

As they rounded the last curve and the sunlight spilled into the cave, the drow stopped in her tracks, hissed in pain and ducked her head to let the hood of the cloak fall to cover her eyes. Reflexively, Sam gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“When we get to Silverymoon, I will make sure, wherever you are taken, your room is dark enough for you,” Sam said, pausing alongside her, letting her decide when she was ready to move again.

“My eyes will adjust,” the drow said, her tone almost reluctant. “Just give me a moment.”

“Take your time,” Sam replied. The longer he spent with this drow, the more confident he grew in his assessment of her—an unwilling defector. Unable to return to her homeland, she would have to find friends, a new home, or wander the land until rage or the elements claimed her. Sam wouldn’t let that happen. Everyone, even a drow, deserved a chance to find some kind of peace in this world. If she answered the Moon Garrison’s questions sufficiently, if she showed her willingness to trust them, work with them, then he would help her find a place on the surface where she could find that peace.

The drow sighed, shuffling her feet. “I’m ready.”

Sam stepped forward with her, out of the cave, and into the full sunlight.

\-----

“Helm protect us all, that’s surely a drow!” the foreman exclaimed, hand to his chest, as Sam and the drow exited the cave. A murmur arose from the small crowd of workers who had gathered around to find out the truth about the drow in the cave.

Sam tightened his grip warningly on the drow’s shoulder as she twisted around to glare at the crowd.

“Yes, she is,” Sam answered the crowd, switching back to Common. “I’m taking her to Silverymoon for a few questions. She shouldn’t be bothering you again.”

“But what about the rest of them?” the foreman asked. “Drow don’t usually come up all alone. Should we be worried about more?”

Sam shook his head. “You might want to wall up the back end of that cave sooner rather than later. She got up here somehow, but I don’t believe you’ll have any trouble with other drow. She was quite alone, and even if she was a spy, she’s not going back to tell anyone. I believe you’re safe to keep working.”

“Thank you, Ranger, we’ll get right on that. Can’t be too careful, you know,” the foreman said, tipping his cap and giving a little bow of his head. “Is there anything we can do for you?”

“Just doing my duty,” Sam replied, tipping his head in return. “But if one of your carters could find the time and room for a couple passengers, I would be grateful. I don’t think my guest here looks up to walking the whole way back to Silverymoon.”

“Of course, we’ll have you a cart ready in no time,” the foreman replied. He turned to call out to his workers, asking for volunteers, asking if anyone needed anything else in the city.

Sam stole another glance at the drow standing next to him. She looked resigned but proud, like this was just another bump in the road for her to overcome. He sincerely hoped he was right in his assessment.


	10. Chapter 9 – The City of Silver

Natasha stood stock still, eyes dazzled by the brightness of the sun, even under the hood of the cloak the half-elf—_Sam_. He had said his name was Sam—had given her to wear. She tried to steal glances at the humans around her, but her eyes were still too sensitive. It wasn’t a lie, her eyes _would_ adjust, but it would take time. Instead, she listened, trying to understand what Sam and the humans were saying. She caught the words ‘drow’ and ‘Silverymoon,’ but that was all she was sure of. Why couldn’t the people of the World Above speak the same pidgin as the residents of the Underdark? She spoke enough of that to make herself understood in the Underdark, but up here? The only one she _knew_ she could communicate with was Sam. She wasn’t sure if she was grateful or resentful of that. She squinted into the brightness, listening as Sam spoke with the male human who seemed to be in charge.

“Are you ready?” Sam said, his voice catching her a little off guard as he switched back to Drow. “I have requested a cart to take us to Silverymoon.”

The human said something to Sam, his tone suspicious. Sam turned back to him and answered him calmly in his language. Natasha looked between the two of them, wishing she could understand what was being said. 

“He wanted to know what I said to you and how I came to speak drow,” Sam said, answering Natasha’s unspoken question. “I told him what I told you but in Common.”

“How _do_ you speak my language?” Natasha asked, unable to contain her curiosity.

“My Grandmother taught me,” Sam replied. “She learned from a drow who lived in her village and she thought it was a useful skill to pass along to her family.”

“A _drow_ lived in a faerie elf village?” Natasha sputtered, astonished. Every drow was taught that the faerie elves were enemies, to be hunted down by the brave raiders so that they would not dare show their faces in the Underdark. And yet, here was a faerie elf, half-elf, who had not only spared her life, but had shown her _kindness_, had spoken to her in her own tongue. He was either dangerously naïve, genuinely trustworthy, or supremely devious, and she hadn’t been able to decide which one. He was far more open, even in this brief encounter, than Yelena had ever been in those long years as her sister. She sincerely hoped she could trust him, but she was prepared for betrayal.

“It happens sometimes,” Sam answered, _smirking_ a little. “I can tell you more on the ride to Silverymoon, if you’d like. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to rest. No offense, but you look tired.”

As the cart and driver arrived, Natasha made her face as blank as she could, eyes slits against the glare of the light. She _was_ grateful not to have to walk, it was rather warm up here compared to the pleasant, even, coolness of the Underdark but she wasn’t quite ready to show him or the humans that she was. “I think I would prefer to rest,” she answered. Then, after a pause she took a chance, “Do you think you could untie me? These vines aren’t particularly comfortable.”

“I am sorry, but I cannot untie you yet,” Sam replied, shaking his head as he unhooked the gate on the rear of the cart to make it easier for the two of them to climb in. “Once we get to Silverymoon, I will see what I can do, but drow are not looked highly upon in these lands. We have had our share of raids and deaths. Would you like a hand?”

Natasha looked away. She had never been on a raid herself, but she had of course heard the tales, filtered down through the strata of Menzoberranyr society. She had always believed the tales of glory against an ancient foe, but she wasn’t quite so sure anymore. Given how quickly she _knew_ her own people would turn against each other and how quickly Sam had been to offer her, a drow—his people’s enemy—_compassion_, she would have to take a hard look at many of the things she had been taught. She closed off her face, making it as impassive as the Widows had taught her. Though inside she might be in turmoil, her face and body would never betray those emotions. She shook her head briefly to decline Sam’s offer and half climbed, half flopped awkwardly into the cart on her own.

Sam quirked an eyebrow, then tipped his head in a gesture of understanding. Natasha watched as he climbed wordlessly up into the cart after her. Once the two of them were settled reasonably comfortably, he turned to the driver and exchanged a few words in his own language. The cart jolted into motion and Natasha braced one foot against a warped board in the floor of the cart. Sam’s hand came up to steady her, warm and solid on her shoulder, and she flinched reflexively. He pulled back quickly with an apology. She gave him a brief nod and shuffled into a more comfortable slump, letting the hood of his cloak fall further over her eyes. She would rest and consider. What a strange place the World Above was.

\---------------

Natasha woke to Sam’s hand on her shoulder, warning her, holding her back. Her eyes snapped open and she peered out cautiously from under the hood of the cloak. The cart had come to a stop, surrounded by a small contingent of armed humans and faerie elves all wearing similar uniforms, but of varied hair colors and skintones like she had never seen in the Underdark. Natasha tensed and her eyes darted back and forth, trying to pick out a leader, determine what they were doing, what they were going to do. What _she_ was going to do.

“Stay calm and let me take care of this,” Sam murmured to her in Drow, his tone almost an order. “I know them, and they will not hurt you if I tell them not to.”

Natasha frowned, her stubborn streak pushing her to argue, but she bit it back. She was a stranger in these lands and Sam had so far treated her honestly. She relaxed. “Do what you need to.”

Sam gave her a quick smile before rising to his feet and jumping lightly out of the cart to greet the human male who Natasha assumed must be the leader of this group. He was tall and broad-shouldered, standing confidently at the head of the contingent with a reddish bird of some sort on his hand—she had heard of the beasts of the World Above, learned of them in lessons, but had never _seen_ any of them with her own eyes. He greeted Sam as a friend, speaking words that Natasha could not understand. She watched as they talked, their body language relaxed and easy, even when they turned to look at her, the yellow-haired human male giving her a scrutinizing look. Natasha tried to sink deeper into the cloak, a little uncomfortable with the perceptive gaze of this human. Finally, the human turned away from her, spoke to Sam again, and nudged the bird onto Sam’s hand. Sam spoke a few soft words to the bird, petted its head, and lifted his hand quickly for the bird to take flight. She watched as the bird flew deeper into the city, disappearing amongst the intermingled buildings and trees. Sam turned back to her and approached the cart again.

“What’s happening?” Natasha asked quickly, still watching the semicircle of humans and faerie elves as they watched her.

“These are some of my colleagues and friends in the Moon Garrison. We will have to take you into custody and ask some questions. It should be mostly a formality at this point, but they haven’t met you yet, so they are bound to be a little suspicious,” Sam began to explain as he climbed back up into the cart. “The Garrison barracks are only a short walk from the gate, and I should let the carter return to his work. Can I help you down?”

“No,” Natasha answered with a little smirk. “If this is to be their first impression of me, then it will not be one of weakness. No offense.”

“None taken,” Sam replied. He climbed back down off the cart again and watched Natasha as she rose to her feet, still bound with the magical vines, and leapt gracefully over the side of the cart, landing as softly as a cat on the hard-beaten road. “Show-off,” he added with a grin.

“Thank you,” Natasha said with a laugh, barely even caring that the semicircle of humans and faerie elves had closed in tighter around her and Sam. She was the master of her own fate now.

\--------------------------------

Sam dispelled the magical vines and watched the drow stretch ostentatiously as she allowed the female guards to take her back to get washed up and change into clean clothes. Steve stood next to him, practically vibrating with unasked questions. As soon as the door closed, Sam turned to Steve and spoke. “Alright, let it out before you pop.”

“When your message said you might be bringing a drow in for questioning, I have to admit, this is _not_ what I expected,” Steve said, gesturing animatedly with his hands, his words pouring out. “Where did you find her? How did you find her? She was on the surface during the daytime? _Why_? Was she alone or were there others? She doesn’t look like any raider I’ve ever seen, so why did she come to the surface in the first place? And she spoke to you—how much Drow do you speak? What did she say?”

“Easy there, one question at a time, I’ve only got two ears,” Sam laughed, angling his body towards a table and chairs. Steve took the hint and they sat down to continue the conversation. “To answer what I can. Some laborers found her in the cave that the Dancing Bear Winery is trying to make useable. The foreman flagged me down, told me they found a drow, and I went in to investigate. She was quite alone and exactly as bedraggled as when we got here. I don’t think she came up here in purpose, but you’d have to ask her. I didn’t push too hard, didn’t want to break her trust.”

“She trusts you?” Steve exclaimed, leaning back in his chair, putting both hands flat on the tabletop. “I mean, you’re very trustable, but she’s a _drow_. They’re not exactly known for their love of their elven cousins.”

“She hasn’t _said_ as much, but her actions suggest she does, to some degree. And yes, she is a drow, but she’s definitely not a raider and she’s not a trained spellcaster,” Sam replied, mirroring Steve’s lean, but far more relaxed. “I don’t even think she came up here on purpose. Defectors are rare, but they do happen. And we know so little about how the majority of drow actually live and how difficult it may be to leave their cities, she might not actually be so unusual. I mean, she didn’t answer when I asked her name earlier, but she hasn’t tried to hurt me even when she had opportunities. I’m calling that trust.”

Steve scrubbed his hand over his face, absorbing this information in silence. He blinked a couple times, eyes slightly unfocused as his focus turned inwards. “That’s fair,” he said, much more quietly after a few moments. “You were speaking with her earlier. I knew you had _some_ experience with the language, but how fluent are you in Drow? Fluent enough to translate when I question her?”

“My drow is a little more formal than hers, but I understand her and she understands me,” Sam nodded. “Of course I’ll be your translator.”

“Thanks,” Steve said, grinning broadly. “What would I do without you?”

“Oh, you’d manage, I’m sure, but I _do_ make things better, don’t I?” Sam replied with a chuckle.


	11. Chapter 10 – The Drow’s Tales

When the door swung open again, the drow reappeared clothed not in the usual prisoners’ uniform, but in a mismatched assortment of garments. She wore an overly large men’s sleeveless vest, light women’s trousers much more suited to her size, well-worn boots, and Sam’s cloak, hood up, but draped loosely over only one shoulder. Her visible shoulder was bandaged, and her hands and wrists showed signs of healing injuries, Steve wasn’t sure what from. He quirked an eyebrow at the guard leading her.

“Sergeant Helder…?” Steve began, but trailed off, uncertain of exactly what he was going to ask.

Sergeant Helder shrugged, keeping her hand firmly on the drow’s shoulder. “She allowed us to treat her shoulder, but didn’t like us touching her hands. We offered her more suitable clothes, but she kept shaking her head and making some kind of hand signs. She tried to tear the sleeves off of one of Maria’s shirts before we were able to figure out she must’ve meant the clothes we were trying to give her were too warm. As long as she’s decent and not agitated, I’m satisfied.”

“That’s fair,” Steve replied. He turned slightly to face the drow, meeting her eyes, making sure she knew he was speaking to her. “I have some questions for you, shall we continue somewhere a little more private?” He swept his arm out, gesturing towards a small meeting room.

She squinted at him as Sam translated. Her eyebrows rose with comprehension and she nodded her agreement. She shook the sergeant’s hand off and turned on her heels to stride into the meeting room. She swept the curtains closed, blocking out the sun, pulled out a chair, sat down, and stared at the little group in the hall, waiting. She leaned back, obviously settling in, getting comfortable.

“Well, she certainly is direct,” Steve said quietly to Sam as the rest of them filed into the meeting room.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. He sat down across the table from the drow, facing her. Sergeant Helder lit a couple sconces and took a position by the door. Steve remained standing, pacing a little.

“First things first, have you eaten recently? Are you hungry?” Steve asked, Sam translating a couple breaths behind him.

The drow placed her hands on the table and answered.

“She says she’d like something to eat, if we’re offering, and do we have any rothé cheese?” Sam translated.

“Sam, could you tell her we can get that for her? Sergeant, you can return to your post, we should be fine here, but could you please stop by the canteen and ask them to send some cheese and bread over, something to drink, maybe a selection of other finger foods? I’m not sure what’s usually available in the Underdark,” Steve turned to Sergeant Helder and asked.

“Yes Captain,” Sergeant Helder said with a nod. She left the meeting room, closing the door again behind her.

Steve turned back to the drow, who was now practically lounging in her chair, fingers splayed out on the tabletop. “Would you care to tell us your name? You don’t have to if you’re not ready yet, but it would make things a lot easier for all of us.”

The drow pursed her lips, eyes darting between Sam and Steve as Sam translated. When Sam finished, she tipped her head in a gesture of concession and answered.

“Natasha,” she said. One word, clear. Her name.

“Well, Natasha, could you tell us why you’re here?” Steve asked.

Natasha smirked and answered.

“_Really_?” Sam blurted out, looking unamused, before remembering to switch back to Drow.

“What? What did she say? What did you say?” Steve asked, looking a little lost.

“She’s got a sense of humor,” Sam answered, shaking his head and smiling. “When you asked why she was here, she said ‘because Sam brought me here,’ so I clarified asking why she was in the cave where I found her.”

Natasha tipped her head, made a face like she was considering her words, then shook her head and spoke.

“She said ‘that’s not important’,” Sam translated.

“And _why_ isn’t it important?” Steve said, giving her a firm but compassionate look that he hoped translated across languages and cultures.

Natasha met his eyes then glanced away. She answered quietly.

“She said, and I quote,” Sam said, looking pointedly at Natasha, “‘What’s done is done, I can’t go back, so to pay for my deeds, I must put my past behind me and move forward.’”

“That’s… dramatic,” Steve said with a chuckle. “What I meant was, were you alone or were there others with you? Did you come up here deliberately? Did you seek out the surface or did you find us by accident? Was anyone following or chasing you? Other drow? Duergar? Should we be concerned about raiders following you? Do you require a guard?”

Natasha’s body language tensed, closing off a little. She tapped one index finger on the table. She looked at Sam, her face uneasy. 

“You can tell us what you know, we won’t hold it against you,” Sam said, trying to keep his tone light and reassuring. He knew it wouldn’t do any of them any good to get frustrated with her now.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Natasha spoke. 

Sam listened intently, waiting as asked, for her full statement before beginning his translation. “Thank you for your honesty. We will do what we can to protect you,” Sam said to Natasha before switching back to Common to relay her words to Steve. “She thanks us for trusting her, but she is afraid her presence will put us in danger. She said that once she was rested, she was planning on taking the next opportunity to slip away from Silverymoon. She was driven out of her home by a noble House who wished her and her—what she says translates to ‘Spiderweb,’ but it seems to mean a sort of group like our Garrison—dead. They sent an assassin, but she fought back, escaped, ran and climbed until she found the cave where I found her. She isn’t sure whether they’ll try again. She says the noble Houses do not take failure lightly, but that excursions to the ‘World Above’ must be carefully controlled; she isn’t sure whether she would be considered important enough to send spies or divination spells after, but in case she is, she was planning on running again to protect us from the raiders. She says we trusted her, and she thanks us, but her Spiderweb taught her this: ‘Your successes are shared among all, but your failures are yours alone. Your failure should not bring danger home with you.’ I told her that she is welcome to stay as long as she needs and we would protect her.” Sam gave Steve an ‘I meant what I said’ look.

Steve crossed his arms and nodded. “Of course. As long as you live in Silverymoon, the Garrison and the city will protect you.”

Sam turned back to Natasha and relayed Steve’s words to her. Natasha pursed her lips and settled lower into her chair.

“Natasha,” Steve said, his voice serious, “do you trust us?”

Natasha squinted at him, considering her reply.

There was a knock at the door, a quick courtesy tap to let them know someone was coming in. Natasha turned quickly to see who it could be, both feet firmly on the floor, fingers gripping the edge of the table. She sat up straight, ready to move if necessary. The door swung open and a goblin shuffled in carrying a tray stacked with a veritable smorgasbord of foods, water, small ale, and a half skin of wine. At the front of the tray was a fist-sized wedge of hard rothé cheese.

“Babolax is being good, he is bringing yous lots and lots of foodses like yous asks for,” Babolax said, nudging the door closed behind him. He lifted the tray, mug of ale sloshing over a little, as he pushed it onto the table. He picked up the cheese and held it up like one might hold a treasure they were showing off. “See? Rothé cheese. A nicely wedge of cheese, rothé like yous asks specifically for, not goat, not cow. Babolax finding it and bringing it to yous.”

Natasha’s hand darted out to pluck the wedge of cheese from Babolax’s fingers. Babolax yelped and practically threw the cheese at her. 

“She toucheded the weapon!” Babolax screeched and stumbled backwards, retreating into the corner to cower with his hands over his eyes. “You bringsded a drow here to telling yous about the weapon? Babolax was telling you everything he knows about the big weapon!”

Steve, already on his feet, crossed the room to kneel in front of the cowering goblin. “Yes, and you did good telling us what you did. You can’t ask a gatherer goblin to do a hunter goblin’s job, you have to have both of them for the tribe to prosper. Just like that, we have to talk to drow about drow things, too. Do you understand?”

Babolax nodded furiously. “Ah, yes. Babolax understandings. Babolax was gatherer, Babolax doing gatherer jobses again. Babolax cannot doing hunter jobses. Yous need drows to do drow jobses, goblins cannot doing drow jobses. Yes. Can Babolax going now?”

“Yes, you may go,” Steve said with a nod of dismissal.

Babolax scrambled to his feet and made a mad dash to the door, slamming it closed behind him. Steve sighed, hands braced on his knees, before standing up again and returning to the table.

Natasha sat with one leg crossed casually over her knee, gnawing chunks of hard rothé cheese directly off the wedge and washing it down with the ale.

“I have to ask,” Steve said. Sam translated.

“Goblins,” Natasha shrugged, offering no other explanation.

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sam, would you like to take over? I think she likes you better.”

Sam scooted his chair a little closer to the table. He stretched one hand out over the tabletop, palm up and open. “Natasha?” he asked. “Could I see your hands? Please?”

Natasha hesitated a moment, then pushed the remainder of the cheese wedge into her mouth, and placed one hand palm up next to Sam’s. She chewed pensively as she watched him. Most of her skin was the same deep charcoal-black familiar to all drow, but her fingers were a paler gray, the injury she had declined treatment for. As Sam looked closer, he saw that it had subtle patterning, like the tracings of frost on leaves. He gently lifted her hand to study the discoloration, feeling a twinge of pride when she didn’t flinch away. 

“This _almost_ looks like a burn, or maybe frostbite, not just abrasions from climbing,” Sam mused. Looking back up at Natasha, he asked “What happened? How did you get this? Are you sure you don’t want a healer?”

Natasha shook her head. “It’ll go away on its own. It’s better than it was and I can barely feel it now.”

“Yes, but how did it happen? Babolax saw your hand. He said you had touched ‘the weapon,’ so this type of injury must be familiar to him. He said he came from a noble House where his mistress would sometimes speak of a big weapon, a cold weapon. What kind of weapon did the assassin you fought carry?” Sam asked, her hand still resting lightly on his.

“He only had a knife that I could tell, but… a _cold_ weapon?” Natasha mused. “He wore some kind of cold armor that hid him from my darkvision. The armor burned my hands like ice when I stabbed him. Perhaps because he wasn’t a drow and couldn’t hide like drow do, so he needed special armor.”

“_Not_ a drow?” Sam said, startled. 

“Not a drow,” Natasha repeated. “I don’t know which House sent him or why _him_, but maybe they thought because he was not drow and not a race we would think to ward against, he would have an advantage against us.”

“Do you know what race he was?” Sam asked, wondering if a drow House had managed to make an unholy alliance with orcs or hobgoblins. The last thing they needed was a drow-driven raiding party that could fight during the daytime. Orcs were too stupid, too erratic, driven by rage and greed. Hobgoblins were too focused on the glories of bloody battle as their legions warred amongst themselves. But if either were led by drow, they could be honed and directed into a truly vicious army to be turned loose on whatever target the drow saw fit.

“I think he was human,” Natasha replied. “He was as tall and pale as Steve, similar features, but with longer hair.”

Steve perked up upon hearing his name. Sam lifted one hand in caution, and he sat back. Observing, but not interrupting.

“Human? But humans do not have darkvision, they cannot see in the Underdark,” Sam said.

“He had some sort of lenses,” Natasha said, holding her hands up and curling her fingers around her eyes in imitation of spectacles or goggles. “Perhaps they let him see.”

“_Goggles of the night_,” Sam murmured. The adventurers who had sworn their magic goggles had been stolen by a drow—perhaps their tale wasn’t so far-fetched after all. And Babolax did say a _human_ weapon. It had been assumed that the weapon was one that would be used _against_ humans, but perhaps the weapon _was_ a human? No need to disguise a drow or take the risk of inaccuracy of a scrying spell against an unfamiliar target if they could send a human as an advance scout. There were rare and powerful spells, granted by powerful fiends, evil gods, or forbidden studies. Spells that could steal the autonomy from a person, control their mind, force them to do any number of things against their will. Humans certainly could and did do evil things of their own powers, but for one to be found willingly in the service of drow nobles? For _drow nobles_ to willingly accept a human into their ranks?

“Natasha, can you tell me more about this human? How did he behave?” Sam asked, watching her closely.

“He behaved as any assassin would,” Natasha replied, furrowing her brows, thinking back to the encounter. “He was silent. He moved silently, did not speak. He did not taunt as Yelena did, he did not cry out when I wounded him. Why do you ask?”

“We were told of a ‘human weapon,’ which we believed meant a weapon to be used against humans. But what if he _is_ the rumored weapon? A human, to be used as a weapon against other humans,” Sam admitted.

“Ah, that would be a good idea,” Natasha nodded. Her fist clenched. “A traitor in your midst, one you would not suspect until it was too late. Yes, that fits. Do you wish me to return to Menzoberranzan, to find him and neutralize this threat?” 

“What? No, that was not what we had in mind,” Sam said, startled. “We were merely hoping for any new information you had. We cannot send you back, the risk to you is too great. How would you even find him?”

Natasha shrugged again, pulling her hand back and crossing her arms over her chest, closing herself off. “I would do what was necessary.”

“No,” Sam said firmly, shaking his head. “There are too many unknowns, and I will not send you back to Menzoberranzan knowing there is someone there who wishes you dead.”

“Then what should I do, wait here? Wait until they decide he is ready and send him here to sow death and fear in your city? You don’t even know what he _looks_ like,” Natasha argued, verbally trying to push Sam away.

“But _you_ know what he looks like,” Sam said, pushing back. He leaned forward over the table. “You could help us with that. If you describe him for us, Steve is an artist, he can draw the man you describe and you can tell him if his drawings look like him or not.”

“I heard my name again,” Steve said, looking pointedly between Sam and Natasha.

“Tell him what we talked about. He is your friend? He has authority here? You trust him? Let him decide,” Natasha said, pointing a finger at Steve.

“Alright, but I think he’ll probably agree with me,” Sam said. He turned to Steve.


	12. Chapter 11 – Uncertainty

Natasha held the slate up, scrutinizing the drawing. The drow carved sculptures and statues, but they did not draw, they did not paint. In the darkness, what was the point? They had books, of course, but those were read and memorized by the sages and priestesses who were allowed to burn candles, then taught by recitation to the students. Without light, a piece of parchment with ink looked exactly like one without. So she had watched, fascinated, as Steve had taken the stick of chalk and used it to flesh out an image of a man’s face on the flat slate. She would speak a description of the shape of his chin, his nose, the length of his hair, Sam would translate her words, and Steve would replicate the image on his slate. Sometimes Natasha would lean in, point at a feature, shake her head, and Steve would use a cloth to wipe the lines off of the slate—as if they had never been there at all—and they would start again. This continued until Steve had held out the slate to her to ask if the likeness was sufficient.

Natasha scrutinized the drawing. Yes, if her memory served her well, this was the man. She turned to Steve and handed the slate back with a smile and a nod.

“Thank you,” Steve replied, echoing her polite nod.

“You said I am welcome to stay. Do you have quarters prepared for me?” Natasha asked, turning to Sam.

“Not prepared yet, but we can certainly find a room for you and set it up how you like,” Sam answered. “Would you care to follow me?”

“Do you live here?” Natasha asked as she turned to follow Sam.

“Sometimes,” Sam replied, opening the door and stepping out. “As a ranger, I move about a lot. Sometimes I live here, sometimes…” His voice trailed off as he led Natasha down the hall.

Steve picked up the slate, leaned back in his chair, and frowned at the image. He drummed his fingers against the table and held the slate at arm’s length, trying to figure out where he could have gone wrong. Natasha had _said_ this looked like the man who had been sent to kill her, but how could it be? Was it the eyes? The assassin’s eyes had been hidden under his goggles; she couldn’t know what his eyes looked like, so Steve’s subconscious had filled in what _he_ wanted to see. He set the slate down, stretched his arms and fingers, and absently picked up a piece of fruit from the tray of food still sitting at the edge of the table. He sat, ate, and pondered.

\-----

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw Sam pass the door to the meeting room, then double back and poke his head in.

“Steve? What’s wrong? It’s dinner time, I thought you would’ve been down in the canteen already,” Sam said, stepping into the room.

“Sam, come look at this drawing and tell me what I’ve done wrong,” Steve said, an unfamiliar note of uncertainty in his voice.

Sam walked over next to Steve, setting his hand gently on his shoulder. He looked down at the slate on the table in front of him. “If Natasha said it looks like the man she saw, I’m not sure what _I_ can say is right or wrong about it. Do you think something might have gotten mistranslated?”

“Who does this look like to you?” Steve blurted out, words tumbling together in a rush as he jabbed his finger at the slate. 

“Steve…”

“That’s _Bucky_ on that slate. He’s been gone for two years, and I’m still clinging onto the past. I couldn’t even do an accurate sketch because my mind _wanted_ to see his face in her description.”

“You loved him,” Sam said, squeezing Steve’s shoulder comfortingly. “Grief moves at its own pace, don’t beat yourself up over wanting to see him again. There are still days when I miss Riley like it was yesterday, and that was seven years ago.”

“But if my mind wants to see Bucky again, how can I be sure this drawing is accurate?” Steve said, a petulant note entering his voice.

“Because Natasha said it was,” Sam replied firmly. “I know that you and she don’t speak the same language, but that’s a very good drawing and she said it looked like the man she saw. She made corrections while you were drawing, so it’s probably _not_ just you drawing what you want to see. There are a lot of humans in this wide world of ours, it’s not unthinkable that someone else out there would look like him—or like you, or like me. If you’re really worried, you can ask her again later. Tell her it’s standard procedure to take a second look the next day to be certain of the drawing’s accuracy, or whatever you need to say. I think that’s probably a very accurate drawing, but if you need to be convinced, do what you have to do.”

“Thanks Sam, that… that helped.”

“I certainly hoped it would. You wanna get dinner now?”

“Lead on.”

\------------------------------

Natasha sat on the edge of the cot in her little room, fingers drumming on her knees, frowning absently. Lost in thought. Sam had said that he would not put her in danger by asking her to go back. He would not ask her to return to kill the assassin who had tried to kill her, who had been molded into a weapon to be used against Sam and his fellow surface-dwellers, but didn’t she owe that to him? He had spared her life, treated her not as an enemy, but as a potential _friend_. He had saved her life, she would save his. It was only fair. If she waited here, surely one of the priestesses of whichever House had sent the assassin would figure out a way to find her. It was only a matter of time—so why _shouldn’t_ she take the initiative and neutralize the threat early? Natasha sat up with a jolt as an idea occurred to her. She might not know which House the assassin belonged to, but the _goblin_ did.

Babolax would be bringing her more food later; she would ask him when he arrived. An offer had been extended to her to join Sam and Steve and their colleagues at the evening meal, but she had declined. She would take her meal later, alone in her room, as a courtesy—not everyone in the Garrison would be so immediately understanding about having a drow in their midst. Sam had nodded, agreeing with her choice. Natasha smiled to herself. A plan was beginning to unfold.

\-------------

A hesitant tap on the door brought Natasha out of a doze. She sat up, immediately alert. “Who is it?” she asked, making her voice as authoritative as she could.

“Is Babolax,” Babolax answered. “Can Babolax coming in? Babolax is bringing more foodses for yous.”

“You may enter,” Natasha said, sitting up straight and stiff and imposing.

Babolax opened the door and entered, bearing a small tray of ale and a small variety of stuffed rolls.

“Set it on the table and close the door, I have something to ask you,” Natasha said, her voice low.

Babolax hurried to obey. “Yes missus? What does yous needs from Babolax?”

“I need to know which House you escaped from and how you managed it,” Natasha said, plucking a roll from the tray, giving it a cautious sniff before biting into it. An unfamiliar flavor, this green stuff, but she thought liked it.

“Oh, Babolax not _escaping_ so much as Babolax getting lost,” Babolax said more cheerfully. “Babolax and other goblins going out on gathering for funguses. Gettings the good ones, the rare ones that being close to the surface where drows not wanting to goes. Babolax founded a big big fungus, taking a long time to gather. When Babolax finishing gathering fungus, all other goblins being gone, drows, too. Babolax trying to finding the path so he not being punished for being lates, but Babolax finding the surface, instead. Then a big big human and a big big dog finding Babolax and taking hims here.”

“Very interesting,” Natasha said, hoping a touch of flattery would help keep Babolax on track. “Which House did you work for? Which House sent you fungus-gathering?”

“Oh, House. Babolax was workings for big big House on hill,” Babolax said with a nod and a smile.

“What was this House called?” Natasha nudged. ‘Big big House on hill’ suggested one particular Family to her, but she needed confirmation.

Silence and a confused expression from Babolax.

“What was your Mistress called?” Natasha tried, changing tack slightly. “What did the other drow call her? What was her Family name?”

Babolax hummed, lifting one hand to his chin, deep in thought. “Babolax thinkings Mistress’s Family was nameded Shade?”

“Matron Schaede? House Schaede? Is that it?” Natasha asked, a thrill of fear and excitement rippling down her spine. House Schaede, First House of Menzoberranzan. Her little Web had earned the wrath of the First House. It made sense now. Of course, only the First House would be so bold as to attempt something so unheard of in drow society as using a human thrall as their pet assassin. “That was very good, remembering that. I have another question for you now.”

“Yes?”

“If I asked you to go back, to return to your big House on the hill, could you? Could you get in safely?”

“Babolax is thinking so. Goblins not being lookeded at very carefully by big House drows.”

“This is excellent news, Babolax,” Natasha said with a nod of approval. “Will you go fetch Sam and bring him here? I have an idea he should hear.”

“Babolax can doings that,” Babolax said, nodding vigorously. He flitted through the door and disappeared down the hall.


	13. Chapter 12 – An Idea

Sam knocked on the slightly ajar door to Natasha’s room while Babolax clung to his trouser leg like an excitable cocklebur. Babolax had said it was _quick quick, drow wants to talkings to you now_, but he wasn’t sure if that meant ‘ignore common courtesy’ urgent or merely ‘come as soon as possible’ urgent.

“Babolax said you wanted to talk to me. May I enter?” Sam asked through the crack.

“Yes, come in,” Natasha answered. “Close the door behind you.”

Sam nudged the door open and stepped into the room, Babolax tugging on his trousers like it would help him walk faster. Natasha sat on the edge of her bed, one foot on the floor, her other leg crossed over her knee. Her hands sat on her raised leg, fingers tented. Gently dislodging Babolax, Sam pulled the chair out from under the little table and sat down, eye to eye with her.

“I have a plan,” Natasha said, looking intently at Sam. “You can tell Steve after I tell you. I can see that you trust him, but he cannot understand Drow, which will slow things down if you have to translate. You both now know what the assassin looks like, but none of us know when or where they’ll send him. I can do something about that. I want to lure him here, to me, so that when he comes, you can kill him or capture him or do whatever you need to do.”

Sam blinked at her, a little skeptical. “‘Lure the assassin here’ isn’t so much a plan as a daydream, unless there’s something you’re not telling me. The anti-magic field between the surface and the Underdark generally prevents scrying.”

“Ah, yes, but there are cracks that can allow magic to pass through,” Natasha said with a little smirk. “If they have a general idea of where in the World Above I might be found, they can search out a crack under your city and scry through it. The First House has many resources, it shouldn’t take them long at all to find one once they know where to begin looking.”

“And may I ask how they are supposed to know where to begin looking?” Sam asked drily.

“Because Babolax will tell them,” Natasha said, chin rising proudly.

Sam’s eyebrows rose. He turned to Babolax.

“Babolax can doing it!” Babolax said, stomping one foot. “Drow plan is strong plan. If Babolax is playings his part good—and Babolax wills!—plan is good plan and be workings well.”

“I asked Babolax if he could sneak back in and he said it wouldn’t be a problem, as no noble would give a goblin a second look. This is true. He will go back down to Menzoberranzan, sneak back into his House, and inform them that he knows where I am. Once he has done that, he will return to the Garrison and let us know how it went. For a Noble House, there is far more at stake than just pride. Any unsuccessful raid or assassination is seen as a black spot on the entire House and unless it is quickly wiped clean, it will surely incur Lolth’s wrath. The Matron Mother who sent the assassin will surely be looking for a way to complete the mission. Babolax will tell her that I am in Silverymoon and she will send her assassin after me. It shouldn’t take more than a tenday, _maybe_ two, for them to find the crack, to scry my location, and for him to be ready to come find me. All you would need to do is make sure everyone here learns what he looks like, so that when he arrives, you can stop him before he reaches me.”

“You’re going to do it whether or not we agree, aren’t you?” Sam said, shifting a little, one hand gripping the chair seat to brace himself. A physical act to keep his mind steady.

“I never said that,” Natasha replied, unable to stifle a laugh. 

“I _may_ have only known you for less than a day, but I know that look,” Sam countered. “May I offer some suggestions?”

“I’m listening,” Natasha said, scooting back on the bed to lean against the wall, kicking one foot.

“Your plan could work,” Sam began, “but, as it stands, it is dangerous. I cannot in good conscience put the Garrison at risk, and I know Steve will agree with me. The Moon Garrison’s duty is to protect the city, and we cannot do that if we have to turn our focus inward on a drow-sent assassin. My suggestion is that we move you to a safe-house in the countryside. Babolax can still return to his former mistress, he can still tell her that he found you, but in this story he will have found you hiding in the woods in a cabin. Perhaps he was out fungus-gathering and stumbled across an old woodsman’s cabin where you had taken shelter, assuming that its remote surface location would protect you from your pursuers. Steve and I would live with you in the cabin, as protection. The three of us already know what the assassin looks like, and with far fewer people present, there is also far less chance that he could slip in by pretending to be someone else or hurt more people on his way to you. I mean, I’ll have to make sure Steve is ok with this idea before we do anything, but what do you think?”

“That’s not a bad idea. The fewer people involved, the less chance of something going wrong,” Natasha nodded. “I like that. If there isn’t a precise location, though, it will take longer for them to track me. I would change my estimate from a tenday or two to over a month in order to find the right crack to scry through, then another couple of days on top of that to prepare the assassin. That would be a long time to spend holed up on watch, away from your friends and your Garrison.”

“If it means keeping this land, this city, _you_ safe, it’s worth it,” Sam said.

“I guess that’s settled, then,” Natasha said, swinging her feet back to the floor and standing up. “And I’m flattered that you think I’m worth all that.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Sam said, rising also to his feet. He flashed her a warm smile, hand hesitating a moment on the door handle before stepping through.

\----------------------

“So, what do you think?” Sam asked, watching Steve from across their usual table in the pub. “It could work. It puts a lot of weight on one goblin to make sure that word gets back where it needs to and we would all have to be on our guard for pretty much the entire time out there, but it _could_ work.”

“It’s bold, dangerous, and I like it. Yeah, it’s not going to be a walk in the park, but considering our other options? I like it. It’s not _guaranteed_ to work, sure, but from what you said Natasha told you, odds are very good that they send their assassin to finish the job. I’m up for it,” Steve replied, reaching across the table to steal a potato wedge off of Sam’s plate, dodging nimbly as Sam slapped at his hand.

“You won’t mind spending a couple months in the woods, city-boy?” Sam teased, trying to keep his mind from dwelling on the plan’s risks.

“I may not be a ranger, but I think I can handle myself. Besides, I think you two might need a chaperone,” Steve teased back.

“And what do you mean by that?” Sam asked, briefly startled by the rapid change in topic.

“You think Natasha’s cute, and I think she’s kind of interested in you, too. I see the way she looks at you,” Steve said, kicking Sam’s ankle under the table.

Sam closed his eyes and gave his head a quick shake. “I mean, yeah, she _is_ cute, but I barely know her. And I don’t think she’s into me like that. We’ve only known each other for a day—she’s probably just curious, never been to the surface, never seen a half-elf before.”

Steve shrugged and made a non-committal noise. “Well, I’m still up for chaperoning, _but_, if you two end up needing some alone-time at any point, let me know and I’ll be glad to do a nice long perimeter check for you.”

Sam laughed and tossed a piece of potato at him.


	14. Chapter 13 – Into the Woods

“This is… snug,” Steve mused, hands on his hips, glancing around the little cabin Sam had found for the three of them.

“Yeah, it is, but it’s in the perfect location. It’s remote enough to be an attractive target, but open enough that it won’t be _too_ easy to sneak up on us,” Sam replied, shaking some dust out of the window curtains. It was small, it would need a bit of cleaning, but it was a nice enough little place for their purposes.

Natasha said nothing, instead taking a slow and thorough look around the cabin, memorizing its layout.

The cabin was definitely small, little more than a bothy, meant only as a stopover. It had a front room-slash-kitchen and a small bedroom with two narrow bunks and a short chest of drawers. A third small room contained a cistern and water pump, a washtub suspended from the ceiling, and a privy tucked away in what could, very generously, be called a fourth “room.” There was a loft meant mostly for storage above the back rooms that gave an open view of the front room. 

Built out of stone and slightly sunken into the ground, with sturdy shutters and a solid oak door, the cabin was built to withstand the elements. The door had a latch but no lock, though they could certainly figure out how to bar it at night. Sam had prepared for the stay by giving Redwing a thorough circuit of the surrounding woods and studying the alarm spell until he could practically cast it in his sleep. A watchful hawk for the day and a silent perimeter around the cabin that would awaken him instantly if crossed for the night. Fairly basic protections, but perhaps that was what they needed—if someone was looking for a powerful spell like symbol or guards and wards, it would be very easy to overlook the faint magical traces of alarm. The cabin’s simplicity, though, was its best defensive feature. There were only so many ways to enter, few places to hide, and they would be ready for any of them.

Following Natasha’s lead, Sam made his own round of the cabin, checking the furniture, each window and door, each wall and beam, even shimmying out into the rafters to inspect the roof. As Sam inspected, Steve brought in their food and supplies, tucking trunks and crates away into the loft, stringing vegetables and herbs down from the short loft rail where they could be easily reached for cooking. Natasha sat down on the lower bunk and began laying out the handful of daggers she had been allowed to take from the Garrison, claiming it as hers. Everything seemed solid. Safe. Defensible. The den was small with the fireplace doing double-duty as cooking hearth, sturdy kitchen shelves and accoutrements next to it. There was a long table with mismatched stools tucked under it and a potbelly stove almost too close for comfort at the end of the table. There were no plush chairs, no well-stocked bookshelves, all entertainment would have to be brought along by the residents. It wasn’t supposed to be lived in for more than a few days at a time, but they would manage. 

Steve climbed back down from the loft and pulled one of the stools out from under the table to sit down. “Well, that’s the last of it. Everything’s in,” he said to Sam. “I went ahead and put my bedroll down in the loft; I know Natasha can take care of herself, she survived the assassin once already, but I don’t like the idea of leaving her alone in the loft while we’re hidden behind a closed door in the proper bedroom. And if she and I share the bedroom, well, we still can’t understand each other. It’s not ideal. So I think it’s best if you and she take the bunks.”

Sam glanced surreptitiously towards the bedroom. Natasha seemed preoccupied with getting a feel for her daggers, casually slashing and tossing. He leaned in and whispered back at Steve. “And this wouldn’t be you attempting to play matchmaker, right?”

“Of course not,” Steve said, face serious. “I mean, I do believe what I said, but in the face of everything, this is the best setup. You speak Drow, I don’t, therefore you and she should share the bedroom. You know I would never put any of our safety in jeopardy, no matter how cute of a couple you two would make.” Steve’s mouth curled into a smug little smile and he nodded.

“Ok, good,” Sam sighed. “Because I do agree with you—in that this is the best living situation, not the other thing. Maybe, if she agrees, I can try to teach her some Common and you a little Drow while we’re here. It certainly would help if we can all understand each other even a _little_ better.”

“I like that plan,” Steve said, nodding his agreement. “It certainly will help the time pass quicker if we’ve got something to keep us occupied besides cards and dice.”

“Or we can do both at the same time,” Sam said with a laugh. “We can start with your favorite curses when I’m trouncing you in backgammon.”

“Always a good idea to start with the curses,” Steve laughed back.

\-------------------------

Any ranger worth their salt could rightfully brag about being able to sleep anywhere, any time, but Sam found himself frustratingly awake as he rolled over quietly in his bunk, trying not to disturb Natasha. Tonight, he was all excitement and nerves. In all of his experience, one lone human assassin should hardly give him pause, but there were, however, quite a number of threads that had come together to bring him here to this cabin, and they were now tugging at his mind all at once. He and Steve and Natasha could try to plan for every contingency they could think of, but nothing was certain until it happened.

The threads twisted in Sam’s head as he tried to grasp onto whichever one would allow him to sleep. As a ranger, he knew a thing or two about what living in close quarters in near isolation could do to people. When you rubbed shoulders with someone enough, things started to rub off, shells began to wear down. As much as his gut told him they could trust Natasha, she seemed to be keeping her true self hidden beneath a façade of indifference. What would happen when that façade fell? What would happen if instead they proved too abrasive together?

Sam closed his eyes and tried to quiet his worries. What would happen if Natasha’s description, if Steve’s drawing of the assassin _was_ accurate? If a drawing that looked unnervingly like Bucky had caused him to fall back into his head, second-guessing himself and dredging up old memories, what would seeing the actual man do to him? It’s not that Sam blamed him, he knew what _that_ felt like, too, but it was the uncertainty that nagged at him. Steve was a skilled, capable leader, well able to hold his own in the heat of combat, but he was only mortal and, like every mortal, had his weaknesses as well as his strengths.

And what about himself? Sam sighed and linked his fingers behind his head, staring up at the ceiling, slowly tracing the wood grain with his eyes in an attempt to calm his mind. If he was being completely honest, he had quite the knack for looking far more put-together than he sometimes felt inside. Like Natasha, he had a façade of his own, and he didn’t particularly like to admit to having it. He was brave, skilled, competent—it wasn’t bragging if it was true—he knew he was, but that little nagging imp at the back of his mind hissed doubts into his ears. If he didn’t have plans, and if his plans didn’t have backup plans, then what did he have? How could he forgive himself if someone else got hurt because he wasn’t prepared? Everyone said it wasn’t his fault about Riley, just bad luck, nothing anyone could have done. Maybe they were right, but sometimes it felt hard to believe them.

“Do you always move this much when you sleep?” Natasha’s voice drifted tiredly up from the lower bunk.

Sam snapped back to the here and now. “No, sorry, I just have a lot on my mind,” he replied. “Been thinking about the cabin, the plan, all of that. I’ll try to be quieter.”

“Ah. I understand. In any new place, it’s hard to sleep until you’re confident in the protections. I think you and Steve have done a good job with what you had to work with, I trust you.”

“Thank you.” A small smile crept across Sam’s lips. Natasha just said, _out loud_, that she trusted him. It was a good feeling.


	15. Chapter 14 – Waiting

Babolax returned to the cabin a mere four days after he had been sent off to complete his part of the plan. He had played his part well, explaining with coached naivety that he had gotten lost and had seen a drow in the World Above and was very confused and thought it best if he try to return to his House and ask someone who knew better than he did rather than approach her. His story had gotten passed quickly along to the Matron Mother, who demanded his presence and asked him sharp questions about this unusual sighting. Who was she? What did she look like? Had he spoken to her? The questioning had gone on for hours, the answers squeezed and wrung out of him, extracted from a litany of _Babolax is not knowings that’s_, but Babolax had done what had been asked of him and he was proud of himself. It hadn’t been easy, but he had done it.

Steve sent him back to the Garrison with a smile and a commendation and a job well done. As soon as Babolax disappeared through the trees, Steve’s face grew serious. “Well, this is really happening now, isn’t it?” he said with a forced laugh that was more a sharp exhale of breath than anything.

\------------------

The days passed. There was no schedule, no regularity to their chores or their leisure. The more variable they kept things, the safer they would be. There would be no patterns to observe, no allowing the assassin to simply sit and wait, knowing that the right moment to strike would be just around the corner.

It was, Natasha admitted to herself, actually quite nice. She could do what she wanted, when she wanted, with no Headmistress dictating schedules. She danced when she wanted, cooked when she wanted, slept when she wanted, and played games when she wanted. She danced the steps the Widows’ Web had taught her, remembering her sisters, the good memories and the bad. 

Sometimes Sam walked beside her, watching her as she danced, smiling at her, complimenting her. He spoke to her in both Drow and Common, and she began to recognize words and phrases, prefixes, suffixes, conjugations. He complimented her, said she had a natural talent for language, picking up Common so quickly. Maybe she’d offer to teach Sam to dance in return. He already moved like a dancer, fluid, light on his feet. He said she didn’t owe him anything, for any of this, but she didn’t like to feel indebted. A drow paid her debts, one way or another. If he didn’t dance, then he deserved to, deserved to know that joy; she would find the right time to ask him. She wasn’t sure when it would be, but she _would_ find that time.

By the end of the first tenday after Babolax’s return, Natasha could exchange a few simple phrases with Steve. He was picking up some Drow, but maybe a hair less quickly than Natasha was learning Common. They would practice together while sitting at the long table, chopping vegetables, kneading dough for flatbreads, stirring soups in a tiny kettle hung in the fireplace. Sam _could_ cook, but he preferred to leave that duty to Steve. Steve’s whole self lit up when he explained to Natasha in slow, precise Common the recipes his mother had taught him. Natasha listened and watched intently, maybe not understanding many of the words Steve was saying, but did it truly matter? So many of these foods he described she had never seen before, never heard of. Foods in the Braeryn were simple things: hard rothé cheeses that kept, simple stews of meats and funguses, sometimes dried cakes of algae dredged from Menzoberranzan’s ponds, if they could afford them. She wasn’t sure how the nobles ate, but surely not even as richly as this. She was amazed by the sheer variety of foodstuffs available in the World Above, things that not only lived, but _thrived_ in the sunlight. Even if she didn’t like a dish or an ingredient, it was well worth trying everything simply for the knowledge and the experience.

By the end of the second tenday, things had become comfortable, domestic. The three of them had to work to not fall into a routine, to not create patterns of movement. It was likely too early still for the priestesses of House Schaede to have found a suitable crack to scry through, but if they became complacent now, then they would surely pay for it later. Sam and Steve would draw lots to patrol the woods around the cabin, to search for berries, wild vegetables, and game, and, of course, to make sure there were no signs of intrusion. Natasha itched to join them, to learn more of the woods, the trees, the animals, all the things she didn’t know. She wanted to _know_ about this land she could hesitantly call her home, but she still found the sunlight too strong for anything more than short excursions. Beautiful though it was, it dazzled her eyes and made her feel like there were tiny fires dancing on her skin. It was getting more tolerable every day, but it still frustrated her that this process was so slow. Sam said that once this was over and they could return to Silverymoon, he would find her a nice pair of smoked-glass spectacles to protect her eyes from the light.

By the end of the third tenday, everyone’s nerves were beginning to rise, though each would deny it if asked. There was an unmistakable tension in the air, like the buildup before a lightning storm. Sam would miscount hands in cribbage, causing him to rue the day he introduced Natasha to the muggins rule. Steve would forget steps in his recipes, leading to under-spiced or over-cooked meals that they would eat in strained silence and pretend like nothing was amiss. Natasha nearly took one of Steve’s ears off with her dagger when he climbed down from the loft early one morning, startling her as she practiced her échappé leaps. No one blamed anyone else.

By the end of the fourth tenday, the tension had slowly broken, replaced by a clenched-jaw determination. He would surely arrive any day now. The longer House Schaede waited, the more displeased Lolth would be with their tardiness. Surely by now, the assassin would be well healed from any injuries sustained in his incursion against the Widows’ Web. Surely by now, House Schaede’s priestesses would have found a crack, either of their own doing or by praying to Lolth for guidance. But she was a fickle goddess, cruel and capricious. Perhaps she had withdrawn her aid, forcing her followers to prove their loyalty. Perhaps, though, House Schaede was imitating their goddess. Perhaps they were playing the spider, watching their prey, waiting for the perfect time to strike, waiting for her to drop her guard.

Or perhaps she had been wrong to suggest this plan, Natasha thought to herself as she sat on the roof, watching the sun just beginning to crest the trees. Perhaps the assassin wasn’t coming. Perhaps she had asked Sam and Steve to isolate themselves for no reason at all. Forty-six days in this cabin, and nothing more to show for it than a serviceable grasp of Common and a greatly improved tolerance of sunlight. Useful, certainly, but neither did anything to solve the problem of the assassin still at large. She sighed, uncrossing her legs and crossing them again in the other direction. Redwing glided slowly out of the trees to land next to her. She reached out cautiously towards the hawk, like Sam had showed her, and let her fingers slip into the thick feathers on the nape of his neck to scratch gently. Redwing dipped his head and gave a satisfied sort of whinnying screech.

“Well, I hope your day goes better than mine has been,” Natasha said to the hawk. She gave him one last scratch before sliding down the roof to land lightly, strategic twigs cracking under her feet.

The shutters on the nearest window shifted almost imperceptibly.

“Don’t worry, it’s just me,” Natasha answered quietly. 

She darted around the cabin to the door, seeing Redwing glide back into the woods out of the corner of her eye. She tapped on the door, using the current pattern of taps. Sam opened it almost immediately, stepping back to let her in. 

“Steve just fell asleep. I don’t want to wake him, I know he hasn’t been sleeping very well over this past tenday,” Sam said, keeping his voice low and answering the unspoken question as Natasha’s eyes darted up to the loft in the darkened cabin.

Natasha gestured towards the bedroom, somewhere they could sit and talk. Sam nodded in agreement.

\-----

Natasha sat heavily down on the edge of her bunk as Sam closed the door. She patted the spot next to her, offering it to Sam.

“How are you feeling?” Sam asked gently. “Any better?”

“A little better, yes,” Natasha answered, “but… I don’t know. I just wish _something_ would happen. Not because I want anyone to be hurt, I _don’t_, but so that I can say to myself that I haven’t taken you and Steve away from your Garrison, your friends, for no reason at all. I truly thought this plan would work.” She sighed and rounded her shoulders, dropping her hands to hang loosely between her knees.

“Just because it hasn’t happened yet, doesn’t mean it won’t,” Sam said, trying to lift Natasha’s spirits. She had been moody and withdrawn the past couple days. He gently encouraged her to say what she needed, to let it all out. “We all knew what we were getting into when we agreed to this. We knew the uncertainty. Please, don’t blame yourself.” He placed his hands on the bed a little behind him, leaning back and smiling. “And I wouldn’t say we left _all_ our friends behind in the Garrison. You’ve been very good company. I’m sorry I’m not a good dancer, but thank you for trying to teach me.”

Natasha smiled back, a wide, genuine smile that traveled all the way up to her eyes. “If we had enough room, and you didn’t have to worry about anything else, I think you would find you’re a better dancer than you realize. You don’t give yourself enough credit, and I would love to keep working with you.”

Sam’s shoulders rose and he turned his face away from Natasha—she thought he might be blushing. After a breath or two, he turned back, composed again. “Changing the subject a bit, but have you thought about where you might like to go, what you might like to do after this is over?”

Natasha blinked. No, actually, she hadn’t given it any thought. Ever since she had left the Web, her first priority had been survival. True, she had found time for games and leisure, but there had always been that undercurrent of danger, lurking in the shadows. And what skills did she have that the people of Silverymoon could want from her? They seemed to have little need of assassins, and those who did found themselves swiftly opposed by the Moon Garrison and the Knights in Silver. She knew how to kill, she knew how to dance, and she knew how to survive. Menzoberranzan had asked little else of her. She opened her mouth to speak, but found no words in any language. She shut it again and frowned.

“Well, um, you don’t have to decide now,” Sam said gently. “And if you want my help with anything, want my advice, I’ll gladly give it.”

“Thank you,” Natasha said with a little nod. “When this is all over, I think I will take you up on that.”


	16. Chapter 15 – Predator and Prey

The first birds had already begun the dawn chorus, though the woods remained still and dark, awaiting the sunrise. The air carried the first true chill of autumn, a promise of frosts to come. Sam slipped silently through the trees, a thin scarf wrapped around his mouth to hide the fog of his breath. The night had been cold and quiet—no tracks, no signs, no sight or sound of the assassin. He should probably return to the cabin now, begin breakfast and wait for Steve and Natasha to wake to give his report. The same report he gave every time he returned from patrol: nothing yet.

A heavy clatter of wings, a startled woodpigeon, drew Sam’s attention, stopping him in his tracks. He glanced cautiously around to try to find the source but saw nothing but the receding pigeon. The birds around him had fallen eerily silent. Sam’s hand moved closer to the hilt of his shortsword, ready to draw in an instant. He listened.

He heard the tell-tale whistle with barely enough time to dodge the knife that came flying at him from among the trees. The knife embedded itself deeply in the trunk of a young pine as Sam ducked away, drawing his sword and working to pinpoint the origin of the weapon. Another throwing-knife came flying at him, and he knocked it away with a swing of his sword. He thought he saw a shimmer in the air, heard a rustle of branches as something large moved past them. His breath caught. This had been the first night that could be truly considered _cold_. The cold weapon. Natasha had said the assassin’s camouflage had hidden him from her darkvision, shielding his body heat from her and her sisters’ eyes. This cold morning, at the transition between night and day, the conditions would be perfect. Natasha’s eyes were still a little sensitive to the light and would put her at a disadvantage as the sun’s rays pierced the darkness. Sam charged towards the shimmer.

A third knife flew at him, confirming his suspicion of the assassin’s location. Sam parried the blade, keeping his eyes on his target. He needed to follow the shimmer, keep the assassin occupied until the sun rose and fully illuminated him. He needed to prevent the assassin from reaching the cabin. He needed to get to the cabin, warn Steve and Natasha. He adeptly dodged a fourth knife but stumbled as he felt a stinging, burning pain in his leg, a fifth knife launched immediately on the heels of the fourth. He took his eyes off the shimmer, growing more visible as the sky lightened, just long enough to glance down to see how bad the injury was. The knife wasn’t embedded. It had nicked his thigh, slicing through his pants and cutting deep enough into the flesh for the injury to bleed. He set his teeth. It hurt, but it hadn’t hit a major artery, hadn’t cut too deep; he would push through, tend to it after the immediate danger had been taken care of. An injury like this should barely even slow him down. 

Instead, a wave of vertigo swept over Sam, causing him to stumble again. He fell to one knee, free hand out to break his fall. He blinked against the sensation, trying to find his balance. _Drow poison_, he thought as his head reeled. Poison-coated blades to incapacitate the wounded meant no need to make that perfect strike on the first attempt. It was rarely encountered on the surface, supposed to be unstable after a few hours in the sunlight, but if the assassin worked quickly enough... An unconscious target couldn’t fight back. He gripped his sword tighter, feeling the solidness of the hilt, feeling the leather and the metal, feeling the bones and tendons in his hand as he squeezed. Focusing on the sensations to keep himself awake and aware. He had to fight the poison. 

The shimmer, now a vague shadow, receded into the trees. Sam cursed. Bracing himself on his sword, he pulled the scarf down, held up his arm and called out to Redwing. He prayed that the hawk was close enough to hear him. Prayed that the hawk was close enough to reach the cabin before the assassin did. He closed his eyes and focused on keeping his hand high.

\-----

Seconds, minutes, hours later, Sam wasn’t sure, he heard the approach, then felt the familiar weight of Redwing on his fist. He opened his eyes. The sky was gray but lightening. Redwing cocked his head, querying his master. Sam took a deep breath and summoned the energy to cast a spell. He dropped his sword, hand shaking as he made the motions, whispering the words.

“Go to the cabin, find Natasha,” Sam told Redwing. “Tell her _‘He’s coming. Poisoned blades.’_ Now go, as fast as you can.” 

Sam jerked his hand up, jolting the hawk, who took flight immediately and disappeared into the woods. He groaned and collapsed onto his side in the leaf litter. He let himself lie there for a moment, just breathing, finding himself again. He dragged his hand over the wound, muttering another spell to draw the poison out.

\---------------------------

Natasha was awoken by a frantic scratching-tapping on shutters of the bedroom window. It wasn’t the secret knock that she, Sam, and Steve had agreed on for these next few days, but more of an animal noise, the scratch of claws or nails on the wood. She sat up in her bunk, picked up one of her daggers, and unlatched the shutters, cracking them open to take a look. If she had to deal with a panicked squirrel in the bedroom, then she’d deal with a panicked squirrel in the bedroom. She hadn’t had breakfast yet, and she found pan-fried squirrel quite tasty.

She peered out the crack in the shutters into the brightening dawn woods. Seeing nothing through the tiny slit, the cautiously pushed the shutters wider. A flutter of feathers and Redwing flew deftly through the gap in the window and landed on her arm.

“_He’s coming. Poisoned blades_,” Redwing said, Sam’s voice coming from the hawk’s beak.

“Say that again,” Natasha said, sitting back on her heels and hoping she had misheard. “Can you say that again?”

“_He’s coming. Poisoned blades_,” the spell obliged. Redwing spoke the words, then ruffled his feathers, chirped, and flew up to sit on the headboard of Sam’s bunk.

“He’s here,” Natasha said, fear creeping into her voice. After all this time, all this waiting, everything was suddenly very real again. She found her feet and stepped out of the bunk, turning back to Redwing. “Where’s Sam? You said poison, where is he? Is he ok? Does he need help?”

Redwing gave a short, whinnying screech. The message had been spoken and the spell had dissipated; the hawk would not speak again unless the spell was cast again. Neither she nor Steve could do so.

“Go find Sam, can you let him know we got his message? I know you can’t speak, but he’ll understand you, yes?” Natasha asked Redwing while finding clothing far more suitable for a fight than her nightclothes. She’d done that once before and she would much prefer not to do it again. She watched as the hawk gave his head a quick scratch and stretched his wings, ducking nimbly out the window and receding rapidly from sight. She pulled the shutters closed and latched after him. She grabbed the light leather armor she hadn’t yet needed and left the bedroom to warn Steve.

\-----------------------

Steve was awake, sitting quietly in the loft, chewing on a dried fruit and oat cake while he made sure his sword and shield were clean and ready for his patrol later. Something useful he could do while Natasha was sleeping and Sam was still out. When Sam returned, he would climb down and start a proper breakfast cooking. He heard the bedroom door open, followed by rapid footsteps. He perked up and scooted over to the railing to lean over and see what was happening.

“He’s coming!” Natasha shouted up at him as she donned her armor in the middle of the front room. “Sam sent a message by Redwing, says the assassin’s coming, and he has poisoned blades. I don’t know where Sam is, I don’t know if we should stay here or go look for him.”

“What did the message say?” Steve asked, hurrying down the ladder with his things. “Can I see it?”

“It was a spell. Redwing came to the window and said ‘_He’s coming. Poisoned blades_,’ in Sam’s voice, and then the spell ended. I sent him back to let Sam know I had received it,” Natasha explained as she buckled her armor on.

If Sam hadn’t had time to write the message, instead expending a spell to send word, then the assassin must be nearly upon them. He wanted to go out, find Sam, make sure he would be safe, but if the assassin was as close as this, then his first priority would be to stop the assassin. 

“How do you want to do this?” Steve asked Natasha, beginning to don his own armor. “Barricade ourselves inside and wait? Take the initiative, go out and try to find him to put him off balance?”

“I… I don’t know,” Natasha admitted. “If Sam knows that the assassin is using poison, then he must have met him in combat already. If we let the assassin get inside, then we’ll know where he is, but the close quarters could be a disadvantage if he is using drow poison. If we go outside, he won’t be able to follow both of us and you could use that to your advantage, but he will probably use the sun to _his_ advantage against me.” She paused. “_But_, I want to find Sam. I need to know if he’s ok or if he needs our help.”

“So do I,” Steve said firmly. “Are you ready? I’ll go first, slowly, to get a read of the surroundings. If I don’t see anything, I’ll signal you. Stay within sight of me, but not too close. The Garrison has a signal for times like this when we get separated. I’ll whistle, listen for Sam’s reply, and move towards him. I only hope we find him before the assassin finds us. I like three-on-one odds a lot better if we’re up against drow poison.”

Natasha nodded and drew one of her daggers.

Steve finished securing his armor, buckled his sword belt on, made sure his coil of rope was secure, and hoisted his shield into position. He lifted the bar off the cabin door, pushed it slowly open, and drew his sword as he stepped out into the dawn woods. The sun was just breaking over the horizon, its light turning the trees from silver to gold, but leaving plenty of shadows in which a trained assassin could hide. He paused to look, listen, feel. No stealthy sounds, no movement, not even a scent out of place. Birds sang from the treetops. He took a step forward. Nothing. No sign of either the assassin or Sam. He moved quickly and cautiously from the cabin to the trees, keeping a wary eye out. Putting a solid old oak to his back, he stopped again and waited. Still nothing. He signaled to Natasha.

\------

The glint of sun on metal caught Steve’s eye just as Natasha yelled a warning. He twisted his body around, flinging the shield out to deflect the knife that flew out of the trees towards him.

“Show yourself!” Steve yelled at the hidden assassin. “Come out and fight me, face to face!”

Unsurprisingly, the assassin made no move to leave his cover. As long as Steve had his attention, though, that was what mattered. Keep the man distracted so Natasha could get to him to subdue him. They would kill only if necessary, preferring to capture the assassin alive to learn how he had come to serve drow nobles in their ancient vendetta against the surface-dwellers. Only Steve’s eyes moved as he tracked Natasha’s progression as she circled around to get behind the assassin. He continued to taunt.

“I know you’re in there! Are you going to come out and fight me, or are you too much of a coward?” Steve shouted. Another knife flew at him and he blocked it easily with his shield. “You can’t hit me, you’ll run out of knives if you sit in your bush all day, then what will you do? Scurry back to your masters, tail between your legs? Do you think they’ll allow that? We know why you’re here, we know who sent you, and we’re not going to let it happen. Come out and fight!”

There was an angry yelp, and a humanoid figure exploded out of the underbrush with Natasha clinging to his back like a very large, angry stirge.


	17. Chapter 16 – Close Combat

The man wore soot-gray leather armor, mottled like lichen, over close-fitting clothes of similar coloration to camouflage him in the shadows of the forest. His hair was long and pulled back into a hasty coil knotted at the base of his neck. His mouth was covered by a scarf or mask, his eyes by goggles modeled after an owl’s face, and he still had a faint, ethereal shimmer to him. His belt had nearly a dozen empty knife-sheaths, but the empty sheaths were still well outnumbered by those still holding the tiny, wicked throwing knives. The configuration meant they weren’t able to be drawn particularly quickly, and with the poison coating the blades, the assassin would be unlikely to risk carrying more than one in each hand. He was gloved, but to maintain the dexterity required to throw the knives the gloves couldn’t be thick enough to protect him from cuts if he were reckless—even a tiny nick could mean rapid unconsciousness. 

His hands, however, were currently occupied with trying to remove the drow hanging from his neck.

Natasha had partially uncoiled the rope from her belt and leapt nimbly onto the momentarily distracted assassin’s back and was attempting to choke him into submission, hands gloved against the magical chill enveloping him. She had gotten both ends of the rope into one hand, her other hand grabbing for his head, hair, anything to secure her hold on him. The assassin managed to get the fingers of one hand under the rope, allowing enough slack for him to breathe. The other hand was scrabbling to get hold of any part of Natasha to try to throw her off. Steve quickly sheathed his sword and charged in. The assassin thrashed around as if doing a wild dance, kicking up leaves and soil as he tried to dislodge Natasha.

As Steve neared the assassin, the man abruptly jerked forward as if dropping into a roll. He threw Natasha off his back, but was unable to prevent her from ripping the goggles from his eyes. Off balance from the fierceness of the buck, Natasha lost her grip on the rope. She scrambled for purchase, grabbing onto the assassin’s hair, but her gloved fingers slipped through it and she flew off his back and crashed into Steve, knocking them both to the ground. The assassin grunted in pain, drew a knife, and launched it at Natasha. Steve barely had time to raise his shield to deflect it, rolling to his side to keep the blade from striking either Natasha or himself. The knife rang off the shield, flipped through the air, and landed point-down in the dirt. Natasha disentangled herself awkwardly from Steve and scrambled over to try to grab the knife. The assassin launched another knife at her, striking her squarely in the shoulder. The blade cut deep, through her armor, drawing a gasp of pain. Natasha groaned and fell to the ground, limbs suddenly boneless.

Steve raised himself back to his feet with a growl and charged at the assassin, tackling him, ignoring the sudden cold seeping into his hands. The assassin absorbed the blow, moving easily with him, though his hair continued to unravel and fall into his face as they danced through the trees. Grappling Steve, the assassin got hold of his shield, wrenched it off of his arm, and threw him to the ground. Steve cried out at the pain as his arm twisted in ways he was pretty sure it shouldn’t do, but kicked his leg out at the assassin’s ankles as he fell. A solid impact and a grunt, and the assassin fell onto Steve, knocking the breath out of him. 

Rolling and wrestling with the assassin, Steve felt the cold intently through his gloves. He hoped he would still have feeling in his fingers by the time this was all over, with the wrenched arm and the icy chill of the assassin’s magical armor. The assassin’s hair was nearly fully loose now, dangling in front of his face and partially obscuring his vision, yet he still fought determinedly on. Steve strove to keep the assassin’s hands away from the poisoned daggers. Suddenly he saw movement out of the corner of his eye—had Natasha managed to fight her way back to her feet against the enervating poison? He turned his head to look.

“Steve!” Sam yelled as he sprinted in to rejoin the fight.

“Sam!” Steve yelled in reply. “Go to Natasha, she’s hurt! I can handle this!”

Trusting Steve’s word, Sam quickly scanned the surroundings, spotted Natasha’s prone form, and ran to her. He knelt over her, trying to determine how badly injured she was.

The assassin took advantage of Steve’s momentary distraction and punched him in the face, briefly stunning him. The assassin held Steve down with one unnaturally strong hand on his neck. With the other, he reached for a knife. Steve mashed his uninjured hand awkwardly into the assassin’s face, anything to distract him, to buy some time. He felt the man’s nose crunch under the heel of his hand, but he didn’t even flinch. Steve knew that some of the Northern barbarians could go into a sort of rage-trance where they fought without feeling fear or pain, shrugging off sword and spell alike. Had the drow House who sent this assassin chosen him because of that ability, or had they trained it into him by potion, spell, or punishment? The assassin’s hand drew back from his belt, wrapping instead around Steve’s wrist. He pulled Steve’s hand away from his face; Steve’s fingers scratched and dug for purchase, ripping the bloodied mask off.

Steve gasped. He had rationalized away the likeness, drawn so long ago now, as simply a trick of his brain. Seeing what he wanted to see. Even with the faint shimmer around his body and the dappled early morning sun through the trees shadowing his eyes, Steve could see this was no illusion.

“Bucky?” the name spilled out of his mouth like a rushed, desperate prayer.

“Who in the nine hells is Bucky?” the assassin spat back in Bucky’s voice.

The assassin’s—_Bucky’s_—hand went to his knife-belt again. Steve lay frozen in shock, staring up at Bucky’s face. Grimacing in anger, blood dripping from his broken nose, but nevertheless _Bucky_. Steve made no move to defend himself as Bucky slipped a knife free from its sheath.

Bucky’s eyes went wide and the knife fell from his fingers, landing harmlessly in the leaf litter beside him. He turned his head, twisting his upper torso around to look at the knife, one of his own, embedded in his armor. He pulled it free as if removing the weapon would save him from the poison it held. He wavered, glancing between Steve beneath him and Natasha, who had thrown the knife. Attempting to fight the poison, his eyelids slid shut and he collapsed on top of Steve.

Natasha reached the two of them, holding her injured shoulder and gritting her teeth as she knelt down. Sam followed close on her heels, shortsword drawn and ready, should the assassin manage to fight off the poison and collect himself.

Steve managed to pick out the words “Are you hurt?” as Natasha and Sam both asked, voices overlapping. Sam grabbed Bucky by the shoulders and hefted him bodily off of Steve, giving a slight gasp of surprise and recognition when he saw his face. Natasha helped Steve sit up, waiting for his answer.

“I’ve had worse. How are _you_?” Steve said with a groan as he braced himself against his uninjured arm. “How’s Sam? How’s Bucky?”

“I’m fine, my wound isn’t deep. It hurts, but like you said, I’ve had worse. Sam’s fine, he was barely nicked, but he drew the poison out. Used the same spell to help me,” Natasha replied. “And who’s Bucky?”

“Him,” Steve said, jerking his head in Bucky’s direction. He and Natasha both turned to look, watching as Sam carefully cast a thornless ensnaring strike, binding Bucky’s body in magical vines. Natasha gave a little nod—she remembered that spell.

“How do you know his name?” Natasha asked, looking at Steve out of the corner of her eye, not turning away from the binding of the assassin.

“I’ll tell you as we get him back to the cabin, ok?” Steve replied, huffing out a heavy breath as he climbed back to his feet. He held out his hand to help Natasha back to hers.


	18. Chapter 17 – Return

When they returned to the cabin, Natasha, Sam, and Steve saw to the careful removal of all the poisoned knives and the binding of the assassin. Bucky. Whoever he was on this day. Natasha snuck little glances between Steve and Sam as they lay Bucky’s unconscious form onto the lower bunk, which had just last night been her bed, and secured the ropes around the frame. Sam had tried to cast his spell to draw the drow poison out of Bucky’s bloodstream, but it was too complex for his remaining reserve of magic. The poison would have to work its way out of his system naturally as he slept.

Bucky had been Sam’s friend and Steve’s friend, partner, and lover. Two years he had been lost to them, presumed dead. Two years he had been under the control of House Schaede, being built into their assassin, their weapon. It was clear he had not gone to the drow of his own free will, so how had House Schaede turned him into their puppet? There were methods, some more powerful than others, some far more dangerous, some she had only heard of in hushed whispers as if speaking the name would incur Lolth’s wrath for believing oneself worthy of even _thinking_ of such a wicked gift. He had been presumed dead. Natasha felt a frisson of fear.

She removed one glove and reached out hesitantly to touch his cheek with her bare fingers, hand shaking as she touched his skin.

“What are you doing?” Steve asked, curious.

“There are a few ways a powerful High Priestess can steal another’s mind,” Natasha replied gravely. “Some are _far_ worse than others.”

Steve looked anxious. He glanced over to Sam; Sam tried to keep a brave face. He placed a comforting hand on Steve’s shoulder.

Bucky was cold, but why? Was it simply to hide him from drow eyes, or was there a far more sinister reason? In the Widows’ Web, Natasha had learned in deepest secret of the ritual zin-carla, the creation of an undead servant who retained all of their skills from when they lived but none of their free will. She knew of its extreme rarity, knew that no good would befall any House who dared to invoke it and fail. Could zin-carla be created from a non-drow? Would House Schaede dare invoke zin-carla to slay humans and elves of the World Above? Would it be allowed? She didn’t know, and wasn’t sure she wanted to know. If he _were_ a zin-carla, there would be no returning him from his undeath, for he would obey his orders until either he succeeded or was destroyed. While they had been in combat, she hadn’t thought to wonder if he were alive or dead. She slipped her fingers to the pulse-point of his neck. 

The pulse was faster than she had expected—she was unsure if it was due to the poison or simply a human trait—but he _had_ a pulse. He was alive. She breathed a sigh of relief.

“What is it?” Steve asked, his words just a little too fast. “Do you know what’s been done to him? Can it be undone?”

“I know one thing it is _not_,” Natasha replied, “and for that I am thankful. If I may watch him a bit longer, I may be able to remember some of the things I was taught as a child. My sisters and I were never schooled in the magical arts beyond our innate casting, but we learned about what spells we might encounter in our livelihood.”

“Of course, whatever you need,” Steve said, but he hesitated, not wanting to leave Bucky. He had only just gotten him back. “I’ll go make breakfast. You both must be pretty hungry, and it’ll keep me occupied.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Sam said, following Steve out of the room, glancing back at Natasha as he went.

\-----

Sam closed the bedroom door to allow Natasha to concentrate without distraction. Steve chose some herbs and greens from the dangling bundles in the kitchen side of the front room. He sliced up some summer sausage, wishing they still had some eggs, but it was too late in the season for wild eggs and they hadn’t brought chickens to the cabin. Sam fetched some water from the cistern and hung the kettle in the fireplace to boil. He’d help get Steve started, but this was Steve’s domain. In his cooking, he would lose himself temporarily in the preparation of a hearty breakfast, keeping his mind from dwelling on the mystery of how Bucky was here, in their cabin, very much _alive_.

Sam watched Steve move purposefully around the cabin, finding the spoons and bowls, collecting the dry oats. Finding his rhythm. Sam walked to the other end of the room and pulled a stool out from under the table. He picked up his crochet hook, an unfinished sweater, and the skein of yarn dangling off of it from the far corner of the table. It benefitted a ranger to know how to knit or crochet, as good wool socks and sweaters were hard to come by in the woods.

“Sam?” Steve asked as he knelt and fed more wood into the little stove.

“Yeah?” Sam answered, looking up and pausing his needle. He knew that tone.

“I grieved. I thought I’d made some kind of shaky peace with the fact. I can’t say that I’d _moved on_, but I thought I’d at least accepted that he was gone,” Steve sighed. He reached over to grab a stool from the long table, swung it out, and sat down on it to tend his pan on the stovetop. “I’d even managed to convince myself that the man in the drawing had to be someone who happened to look a lot like him in simple chalk lines. But now? I don’t know what to think, don’t know what to _do_. I’ve always had a plan and a backup plan, and another idea in reserve in case those didn’t work out. I never made any kind of plan of what I’d do if I found out he was alive. If I had, then Beshaba and her ill luck would surely have provided a body for me to grieve over anew. And now that we have that body, he’s _alive_, but I don’t know if he can be saved, and if so, who will he be? I don’t know if I can lose him all over again.”

Sam stood up and walked over to Steve, taking the wooden spatula from his hand and unsticking the sausages from the bottom of the pan. “He’s alive, and that’s what matters now. Once he wakes up, we’ll figure things out. Maybe they won’t go the way we planned or hoped, but he’s alive and we’ve got to think about _him_ first.”

Steve inhaled, held the breath, exhaled, nodded, and took the spatula back from Sam. “Of course. Thanks.”

“No problem,” Sam said. He returned to his sweater.

\-----

Natasha rejoined Sam and Steve for a subdued breakfast. No one talked much, tired, or worried, or otherwise distracted. Steve asked a brief, hopeful, “Any luck?”

Natasha shook her head. “He’s still asleep.” 

After breakfast, Natasha returned to her study, Steve collected the dishes to wash up, and Sam returned to his sweater. The only thing they could do now was wait.

After Steve had finished washing up, he announced that he was going to go for a little walk. He needed some air to clear his head. Sam stretched his arms and back and glanced over at the closed bedroom door, wondering how long he had been at work, how Natasha was faring. Sam set the sweater, yarn, and his crochet hook down. There were so many things running through his mind right now, not least what would happen with Natasha now that the assassin had been apprehended and she was presumably safe. Drow nobles could be vindictive, but they weren’t stupid. If their first and second attempts against Natasha had failed and lost them their prized assassin, it would be folly to waste resources on a third try for one lone drow on the surface.

Where would Natasha go? Had she given any more thought to what she wanted to do since that brief conversation he and she had shared a few days before the assassination attempt? Sam was itching to ask her to come with him, make a home with him somewhere. In Silverymoon, in the Elven villages of the deep, old forests, as travelers along the many winding roads in this world, wherever she wished. He had grown quite fond of her as a friend. He might even go so far as to say he loved her. A slow, cautious love, unlike the bright flame that had been the love between himself and Riley. He and Riley had dared each other to greater and greater heights, their bond tight and vibrant and pulsing with life. The bond he felt between Natasha and himself was looser, more fluid, easier to overlook, but no less strong. They could strengthen each other, find a softness in each other, learn things from each other that they had never thought to learn.

And that, Sam thought, might be it. He hadn’t told Natasha about Riley. He hadn’t told her that he had loved and lost and still, years later, felt twinges of that old love. He didn’t know how she would react, how she would feel about it. But wasn’t that part of the uncertainty of life? You never knew what was going to happen until you did it. Even the most studied divination wizards could only peer through the mists of things to come to try to discern the future. And Sam wouldn’t know how Natasha felt until he _asked_ her. 

When this whole ordeal was over, when they were all able to go freely without fear, Sam would tell her everything and let her make her choice.


	19. Chapter 18 – Into the Light

Natasha sat and studied Bucky as the golden light of the morning streamed in through the shutters, finally allowed to remain open to the day. He still slept, his face deceptively peaceful. She brushed his hair off of his forehead, feeling the chill remaining. Did his skin feel warmer than before, or was that just her imagination? She wondered how the spell worked. It must be able to be lifted, for how would his keepers see him? Candles and lamps were an option, but they were rare in the Underdark and painful to drow eyes unaccustomed to their bright flames. Perhaps it would fade naturally as time passed, perhaps they would need to use magic to dispel it. Perhaps, if they broke the spell controlling him, the cold would dissipate with it. She sat still as stone, thinking, trying to find the right memory to help solve this puzzle.

A thin, frail thread of memory slowly twisted its way to the surface of Natasha’s mind. Something she had overheard once, long, _long_ ago in her childhood, before she joined the Widows’ Web. Her former House, whose name was no longer of any importance, either to her or any part of Menzoberranzan, had been planning a raid. She had been cleaning the family chapel, hidden away in one of its many crevices, when the Matron Mother and her eldest daughter entered the chamber to discuss their plans. Natasha had pressed herself up against the wall, desperate to remain hidden; her presence during a conference such as this was forbidden and if she were to have been discovered, she would have been harshly punished. She hid and listened, waiting for the two elder drow to leave so she could make her escape. They spoke of a means of giving a high-ranking priestess the power to see through the eyes of a soldier as he slipped into the target House, a way for her to take part in a raid without having to be physically present in the battle.

The daughter had complained that when she practiced seeing through another’s eyes, she had been having trouble holding onto her charge’s mind. She could feel that he didn’t like having someone else in his head. It was reflexive, the desire to keep one’s mind one’s _own_. Her mother had told her that she must find it in herself to _control_ him, to move him by her strength of will until he stopped fighting her. If he would not offer himself willingly, then she must take control of his body from him until he allowed her to use his eyes. He was merely a soldier, she was a priestess. It was his duty to be her eyes in battle and not to fail his House. If she could not find it in her to dominate him, then what place could she possibly have in their House? A House was only as strong as its Matron and her priestesses. Soldiers could be killed or turned; the will of a priestess must be as strong as spider silk to uphold her House.

Natasha’s former House had been comparatively weak, easily swept under in the machinations of Menzoberranzan. She could only imagine how strong the Matron Mother of the First House’s magic must be to maintain her position in that cut-throat society. Natasha leaned over Bucky as he slept and gently, carefully, lifted one eyelid. She frowned and rose to her feet.

\---------

“What color are Bucky’s eyes supposed to be?” Natasha asked, abruptly opening the bedroom door and startling Sam and Steve, causing them to scatter dice onto the floor.

“Brown. A deep, warm brown like cedar bark,” Steve answered, stooping to pick up the errant dice.

“Very poetic,” Sam grinned at Steve. He turned to Natasha. “Why do you ask?”

“There is a drow technique, magic, practiced only by high priestesses. It allows her to slip into the mind of another, to make his eyes her own. It is usually only used to see what another sees, but if the caster’s magic is powerful enough, she can take complete control of his mind and body, forcing him to do as she wants. I have never seen it in use before, but I fear he may be under its control,” Natasha explained. “His eyes are red like a drow’s.”

Steve jolted to his feet, knocking his stool over and dropping the dice again. “It’s not permanent, is it? It can’t be permanent…” He took a half step towards the bedroom. Natasha unconsciously placed herself more directly between him and the door; Sam slowly rose to his feet beside him.

“Any spell can be undone,” Sam explained, keeping his voice carefully level. “I’m sure we can find a cleric in Silverymoon who knows how to remove a curse, lift an enchantment. It’s possible, too, that the farther removed he is from the caster, the greater the chance he has of fighting the spell on his own. Controlling someone’s mind is no small feat. I prefer to befriend animals the old fashioned way, with kindness and trust and maybe some food, but a ranger has to know how to charm a wild beast if it comes down to it. You can charm a starving owlbear to eat out of your hand, but it takes some effort to convince it that it doesn’t want to eat _you_. If any part of him is in there resisting control, he might be able to break himself free.”

“I agree,” Natasha said. “Sam can send Redwing to Silverymoon with a message to request a cleric to come here, or a cart to take him back to the city with us. We’ll figure this out.”

Steve nodded to himself. It was a logical argument. “Can I at least go in and see him? I promise I won’t do anything rash.”

Sam stifled a skeptical laugh and raised one eyebrow at Steve.

“Like you’re one to speak,” Steve laughed back at Sam. “Ok, I will try my very hardest not to do anything too rash, _and_ I’ll leave the door open. I just want to talk to him, maybe I can get through to him in there.”

“I suppose it can’t hurt,” Natasha shrugged.

“As long as he doesn’t have any more knives hidden on him, I agree that it can’t hurt,” Sam said. “Go with caution, though. He didn’t recognize you earlier; he might not know you now, either. Go to him, but don’t lose hope if he doesn’t immediately remember who you are—or who _he_ is. He’s been enchanted for a long time.”

Natasha stepped aside to let Steve pass. Sam righted the stool Steve had been sitting on, and sat back down on his own. Collecting the dice to put them back into their bag, he turned to Natasha.

“Do you mind if I change the subject?” Sam asked, looking up at Natasha.

“Please do,” Natasha answered, walking over and taking a seat next to Sam. She leaned an elbow on the table, chin in hand, and gave him a tired smile.

Sam smiled back automatically, hoping his nerves weren’t too obvious. “Now that this is all winding down, we’ll surely be returning to Silverymoon before much longer. Have you had the chance to think about where you want to go from here, what you want to do?”

“There’s so much of this world I haven’t seen. Everything you’ve told me about, I was hoping to see some of it for myself, experience it for myself. Try new things along the way, maybe see if I can find a calling. Perhaps I might like to be a ranger like you; the woods are beautiful,” Natasha explained, a little smile crossing her lips as she spoke. “I could start in Silverymoon, of course, it’s a large city, many things to be seen, many things to be tried. I was hoping you could show me around. I’m sure you know all the best little hidden gems.” Her smile broadened.

“Are you trying to flatter me?” Sam grinned back.

“Is it working?”

“I do believe it is.”

“Good,” Natasha laughed, a warm, genuine sound. She reached out to take Sam’s hand.

“I would love to take you out, show you all the best sights, the best entertainment, the best food in Silverymoon and the hidden elf villages of the forests,” Sam said, squeezing Natasha’s hand in return. “I would love to travel with you, get to know you even better, and I hope you’d like the same from me. But before we make any plans, I should probably tell you that before I met you, I had a partner. We’d been together for many years and we loved each other. He died, and it feels like it was both a lifetime ago and only a few months. And even though it’s been years since it happened, and even though I truly do want to make something with you, sometimes I still remember the life he and I had together. Sometimes I still miss him. I know I can’t go back. I’ve had so many _good_ experiences since then—especially meeting you—but the heart keeps its own council. And if we’re going to do this, I want to be open with you. I don’t want to dwell on my past, but it made me who I am, it influences my future, and I would like you to be part of my future, for however long you want.”

“Thank you for telling me, and I…” Natasha replied, a hint of unrepressed emotion spilling into her voice. She composed herself. “I would like that, thank you.”

Sam and Natasha sat, having both said their piece. Neither was quite sure what to say next, how to break the sudden quiet between them, but did they have to fill it? It was a comfortable, understanding quiet. They didn’t _need_ to break it.

Steve, however?

A crash from the bedroom snapped Sam and Natasha back into the immediacy of the situation. They both rose to their feet, ready to move. Steve lay on his back on the floor, hands up in a defensive posture. Bucky had partially freed himself from the ropes, had gotten one arm loose and was working the other free, and had managed to find a knife somewhere. He dangled awkwardly over the edge of the bed, knife hanging directly above Steve’s chest. The knife said menace; his body language said confusion.

“Bucky, it’s me, it’s Steve,” Steve said. “You know me, don’t you?”

“Steve?” Bucky asked, his voice wavering with uncertainty, with disbelief. “Is that really you?”

“I’m going to go wait on the roof.” Natasha leaned in and whispered to Sam. “If he’s himself again, the last thing he’ll want to see is another drow after everything he’s been through.”

“Good plan,” Sam agreed. “I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

\----------

Natasha turned immediately at the sound, still conditioned to react in an instant. She relaxed visibly as soon as she saw it was Sam, climbing up to join her on the roof.

“How are things?” Natasha asked.

“All things considered, very good,” Sam explained, sitting down next to Natasha. “Bucky will need some time to adjust, to take in everything, but he’s got Steve—who’s more than willing to do whatever he can to help—and he’ll have the Garrison when he gets back into town. We told him about you, of course, but I can’t promise he’ll trust you immediately.”

Natasha nodded and scooted in closer to Sam. “I understand.”

Sam put his arm around Natasha’s shoulder. A little tentatively at first, like he still didn’t quite believe everything that had happened. When she didn't flinch away, instead leaning into his side, he relaxed. 

“I can send Redwing to town, ask for someone to send a cart or wagon for us,” Sam said after a few moments of appreciative silence. “Once I do that, how would you feel about just sitting up here in the fresh air and watching the sunset with me?”

“I think I’d like that,” Natasha replied, placing her hand on top of his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyes. Yes. We know and love MCU Bucky’s blue eyes, but I read somewhere his eyes are brown in the comics, and that works a lot better for this plot point. Also, brown eyes are nice, too. More love for brown eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I briefly looked up Yelena Belova in the Marvel wiki, but honestly? I’m mostly using her because I need a rival for Natasha and she fits. I know little to nothing about her comics canon.
> 
> I don’t see the drow as being inherently evil, but more beaten down by Lolth, her high priestesses, and the ruling class. And even within that ruling class, while there are certainly some who have come to fully embrace the evil nature of the Spider Queen, there are others who do what they do to survive and maintain the power and status they’re used to, not because they enjoy killing. The nobles scheme among their families, but there’s far more loyalty _within_ the family. Commoners, even commoners within noble houses, are more inclined to keep their heads down and live as best they can and not incur the wrath of the nobles. Similarly, it’s the nobles who send up raiding parties to help maintain their status and wealth by acquiring goods from the World Above and tales of glory to impress those who have never been out of the Underdark. Similarly, surface-dwellers knowledge of the drow comes almost exclusively from clashes with the nobles’ raiders. It’s all very propaganda.
> 
> I am keeping the canon of the drow having a matriarchal society, but not such an extreme one as seen in the novels. Drow males are a step below drow females in their societal hierarchy (and obviously, as with any rule, there will be exceptions), but there’s less of a power gap between them.
> 
> And for those unfamiliar with Dungeons & Dragons, there are many races of humanoids living in the world known as the Forgotten Realms. Humans, elves, half-elves, dwarves, gnomes, halflings, orcs, and many more. Humans within the Forgotten Realms are just as diverse as humans in our own world. So are the dwarves, the elves, etcetera. For instance, these aren’t strictly Scandinavian-looking elves, they vary in features and skin tones based on subrace and land of origin. 
> 
> The drow, or dark elves (but _not_ the Dark Elves of Svartalfheim from Thor 2), are a subrace of elves who were long ago banished to the Underdark, a lightless underground realm, when their patron goddess Lolth made war against the rest of the elven pantheon. Lolth then corrupted her clerics and priestesses with magic and propaganda until the drow believed her lies and came to view the surface-dwellers in the World Above as evil. The drow are generally smaller and slighter than their other elven kin (who are smaller and slighter than humans), with females averaging larger than males. Spider themes run strong with the drow. Drow have skin that ranges from charcoal to jet black in color (yes, I know organisms that live in lightless caves in _our_ world tend to lose their pigmentation entirely, but I can’t throw out _all_ classic D&D canon all at once) with white hair and generally pale red or pink eyes. They have darkvision, which is a sort of handwavey type of infrared vision. Elves of all subraces reach maturity later than humans, and have a natural lifespan of 700-1000 years. While drow are a subrace of elf, they speak Drow, not Elvish. I would guess Drow and Elvish are similar—maybe if you know one you can guess at the other—but not identical. Drow was isolated from Elvish millennia ago and both languages have evolved on their own paths.
> 
> Fun fact: Mielikki, the patron goddess of Rangers, has a half-elven aspect named Khalreshaar in the Seldarine, who is probably Sam’s specific patron, being a half-elf himself.


End file.
